The Pepto clouds

The Pepto-Bismol clouds of sunset, yeah, they're there, just like the fever clouds behind the hills, the remnants of rural lives, the groves and canopies and houses with fields. I woke up hours later, around three a.m., exhausted from too much sleep but feeling better than I had in twenty-four hours, even the sludge slogging through my digestive system was approaching settled. What was with that Ziplock of leaves fallen in August? Vaughn, her bed slightly lit now for the past few days since we bought a night light for the bathroom so she can find her way in the middle of the night, looks to the north I suppose. She who sleeps deeply and thrashes into the wall at times. Her floor a mess of wooden blocks, Lego bits, and books. Dash's door is closed. He who sleeps lightly and gnaws the white paint off his crib when he wakes up. The dark blue night through the window in the hall, the veil of Mary. You can't get rid of what they give you when you're young. I can't at least. I stagger down the stairs, lift my head at the cat as if she can understand that means "hey, how you doin'?" Pour a glass of water. Sit down at the dining room table. It's covered with newspapers, magazines, and old bills. The bananas in the fruit bowl are perfectly spotted. The street's actually quiet. Through the bowed opening of the curtains where they're supposed to meet: blue night, low rock wall edging the neighbor's driveway, vinyl siding and gutters, garden hose, wire fence with chubby posts, the cement walkway ending out of sight, their dining room window all lit up, some people never sleep. I sip the water. My stomachs don't feel better anymore.

      —•—

from "Sixteen Sloppy Haiku"
by Paul Blackburn

A sound you'll never
hear again:
pissing in the toilet
about 3 A.M.