Sometimes I think I’ll never make
it back to my pillow, my velveteen
blanket, my safe space.
I’m far removed, and connected
only by the little texts my daughter
will send, three dots displaying
on the screen, and I’m impatiently
waiting for the reply already.
But there is something about the
uneven, hanging, donut-shaped
lamps and shiny marble floors.
Cookies and coffee in the evening
and all you can eat in the morning,
as I stick to fluffy scrambled eggs,
sweet melon and Life cereal,
always dry, in a bowl, perched on
my egg and fruit plate. I’m pretty
consistent that way, but I’m known
to have an occasional bagel with
a thin layer of low-fat cream cheese.
So after receiving daily fresh towels
and returning to a made bed, you
would think I’d not be in a hurry
to check out. But contrary to such belief,
I am far more content in my own bed,
my own room, hearing my three cats
chase each other from end to end
of the apartment, a small hiss here,
a loud “MEOW!” there, until I
jump from bed, uttering my first
“Hey, stop that!” and they scatter
like blown leaves in late October.
I’m grateful for Friday’s, as I sit
with a glass of wine, listening to
crickets out the open windows
three floors down. And then,
in the distance, speeding vehicles
tempting fate at 1130 PM on I-86.
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