Nana Nap

The afternoon lights clings to bed most strangely,
Slowly being pulled over the washer board horizon,
A hand that you can’t quite see grasping it at ankle,
Like a big old cat I lay and watch it creep over my tummy.

A tendency to embrace the yawning sentiment,
Drifting softly into a sweet, savoured wander,
Far away from the back bedroom, Settler’s Crescent,
To a place where she holds my hand and smiles.

Always awakening in a clingy, hot sweat,
Not from fear but rather exposure to the stretching man,
Yawns that fill up your eyes and dry your throat,
Cracking out your pins, your elbows and your dodgy knee.

Headphones still play some sweet melody,
About true love and springtime bicycle rides.
Shirt sticks to the small of my back as I rise,
But fall back to my slumbering desires.

The sleep provides the gentlest of reliefs,
Of a world in which you are far too far away,
Meeting people and forgetting my name,
At least I still have my afternoon nap.