around the house by the glow of fairy lights
from above the window and a lemon moon
centered underneath. There is a path worn
into the saltillo floor made of feral dog prints
and worry which I follow believing after midnight
they lead away from want. I could drip
coffee into his old ceramic mug, flip through
recipe porn on the kitchen table, shake relief
from a bottle marked with my name
or read stories meant for morning
but I won’t. I will walk until night
recedes into the platinum monotony
of footfalls, exhausting any expectation
of ghosts to cheer the unfamiliar
nursery rhyme of sleep.
