I wrap the Snowman blanket snugly
About my perennially frozen feet,
Its twin ready to soften the armrest
That will soon lie beneath my head.
Next I select Nature Sounds or Spa Radio
From the Pandora list and stretch out
In the corner of this leather expanse
Called a Conversation Nook,
In which conversations, beyond comments
On plot and performance, rarely occur.
I close my eyes, which only serves to highlight
The phrases marching behind their lids.
They refuse to hold hands and become sentences.
Rather they are content to circle like
Incompetent clusters of crows that
Lack the will to become a murder.
I am surprised to be awake.
This is, after all, nap time
When I, no less predictably
Than a two-year old, should rub my eyes
And blink off to Nod or some other nap world.
Instead I lie here, concerned that
More will be expected of me, come evening,
Than my nap-deprived self can deliver.
Conversation — even repartee?
Decisions of which I will be barely conscious,
But to which I will be committed?
I feel a strong sense of kinship
With a bear I have never met.
Still wandering snow-swept slopes
In November's deepening cold.
Unable to find a snug cave for winter's nap,
He grows anxious that, deprived of hibernation,
He may never see another Spring.
