Center Sluggish

I fell asleep in the middle of some day
in the middle of some week that
time forgot.
And I guess the lukewarm coffee I bought
wasn't hot or brave enough
to chase away the waxing doldrums
in my hazed and waning eyes
I pulled the shade like every day;
only red blood cells to see in cell shaded cities
The batteries aren't dead, just slightly disconnected
and lightly firing.
So falling asleep in the middle of the week
ain't the same as sinking
Okay?
It's a flotation device--a rotating
A positive-negative-negative-positive
hedging of bets, I guess.
Paying debts is no fun and I wouldn't want
to sleep away the weekend.
And if I dream of bits of fur fluttering
in overcast autumn breezes, caught on
barbed wire, then that's just the sort
of week it's in the middle of being.
But, y'know, it's funny: on the couch I
only ever dream of doodles I saw strangers
do on the inside back covers of notebooks
whose lines bleed into mine and I have
to wonder when and where they fall
asleep in the middle of the middle of
the week.
But do they bother sniffling?
I've stopped.
It's not a letting go of the rungs,
but a sudden lack of ladder, of
which one won't bother protesting
What's wrong with falling through slow,
souply, familiar thoughts that way?
Anyway, it's only Wednesday, am I
right?

(October 9, 2010)