I wake up and don't
open my eyes right away.

I want to focus on
the image or the darkness in my head.

I rub my eyes.
I see designs.
I watch them dance.
Me, drugless, yet on drugs.

The sheets are a dead giveaway.
These don't feel like my sheets.
I am in a foreign bed.
Not necessarily overseas,
and not necessarily a stranger's,
but foreign like a friend's bed or hotel.

I know I went to sleep in the darkness.
And I don't remember much about the room.
I play a game:

Where is my head?
What kind of pillow?
Am I close to a door, a window, the wall?

What surrounds me? What color are the sheets? Do they match the blanket or duvet?

I keep my eyes shut tight. I want nothing but guessing and blackness.

The head of the bed must be near the wall. I feel its sturdiness and placement.

The sheets feel crisp and eggshell white. The pillow is fluffier than I like. A darker white, I am sure. I don't do white and I don't do fluffy.

But a bed is a bed and this a pillow, too, and I should not complain.

I tighten my eyes and then rub them.

I quickly open them by impulse. I didn't mean to see the room, just saw the room, I quickly close my eyes to unsee the room.

Not at all what I had thought.

Maroon sheets, blue blanket. Big bed. Against the wall, but floral curtains.

Small room. Portrait, mirror, photograph, t.v.

Short few steps to the master bath.

Dresser, oak.

Ceiling, fan.

Walls, five.

Windows, two.

My arm, hairy in the sunlight.

My eyes remain shut after that brief encounter with the room.

My arms, so hairy in the sunlight.

11/23/2008

Posted on 11/24/2008
Copyright © 2025 David Garner