Across Town

One cannot sleep. She goes to bed before midnight, with good intentions. Twelve becomes one becomes two.

Elsewhere, he has kept the racing grounds open late, just for her. He listens for her hard heel against the walkway. He sits, counting other people’s losses. The ticket window remains unvisited.

She arranges two extra pillows the long way down the bed, bedside her. She imagines the someone who might talk her to sleep. The feathers are silent, and she squeezes the next breath out of them.

Elsewhere the owl coos. Coo, coo.

He drives home at dawn; at the same time her drip irrigation kicks on, waking her from a first fought-for hour of dream. The small birds ignite with life, delight in a bath, mock the owl.

He arrives home after having kept the racing grounds open late, for her. Five becomes six becomes one cannot sleep. It is day.