Preparations

After being seduced into an hour’s nap

by the cushions of the couch

loafing in the warmth

of a sun lazing its way

across afternoon,

January’s chill crept through

the poorly insulated doorway,

awoke the dreamer from his work,

forced him to the kitchen

for a blood-warming glass of cabernet.

The electric bill was late

getting to the mailbox,

and exercise was out of the question,

so winter kept finding his bones

when the wine wore off.

No-one can escape.

We all succumb.

Art is in aggregation,

overflowing memories,

but we all

have to sleep

sometime.

That’s why

we dream.