10.22.12

you open your eyes  at 4:19 a.m. and despite your desperate blinks,

the ceiling is covered in shadows, the kind that watch you while you sleep.

with your mind, you command them to leave you the fuck alone

but they just flicker and shift, flicker and shift …  flicker and shift.

you drag your ass out of bed to find the windshield a half inch thick with frost

not delicate etchings, but a coating of super glue ice that won’t scrape off

even after twelve minutes of full blast defrost, you are still shivering on the side street

you remind yourself to buy some gloves the next time you get paid, but you will forget

© 10.22.12 heather brager