the coffee is burned
it smells like the E train.
curtains sag—a pair of old breasts
hiding from the sun
and a slight fog descends upon
the maplewood circle where
I collect myself like dust on a vague epic.
there is something odious about sleep
it is so goddamned official.
waking up on the wall side
I reach for gravity
and a cigarette.
I look for the tiny dependable
clock on a chest I forgot to dust.
rolling over I reach
for a spark of light.

© Jayne Lyn Stahl
Originally published in The New York Quarterly, Number 29, Page 71
All rights reserved.