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