The sleeping one is erect and mumbles.
The room went Arctic overnight
and his foot peeks outside the covers.
You leave his warm slumber
five minutes before the new hour,
stomach growling, and possible
moon somewhere. There’s slight moisture
still. He’ll later say he saw you leave.
The day will happen soon enough-
peanut butter sandwich, dropped knife,
tote bag of graded papers.
Flossing in a colder room,
planning Jefferson myth-debunking,
washing hair—the man’s sleep stretches
without boundaries, rolled to middle,
as if it were his bed, thick lashes,
even beard, and no concern for pillow.
He doesn’t know it’s October and you are happy.
— Farrah Field