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Just the House

Every house settles. Every house makes odd noises. But just what are they trying to tell us?

You know those noises you hear
When lying in bed at night,
And all the world’s as still
As a glassy sea?

They can be jarring pops
Or long eerie creaks;
“Oh, that’s just the house,”
Was how it was explained to me.

Well, today, sometimes I lay
In the dark, and in my mind debate,
Just what it is the old house
Is trying to communicate.

Are those creaks the complaints
Of a weight-bearing joist,
Longing for another friend
To help out with the hoist?

Or maybe the house is finally
Shifting its position
On the merits of a slab
Versus basement foundation.

Or perhaps it’s just pleading,
For a fresh coat of paint, or
The company of a fine shade tree,
After years of bearing the brunt of the sun —

And this is how it has chosen to vent.

Sounds Before Sleep

You can hear so much in the silence.

My bones ache.
My back, my knees, my feet, all
Throb to the imaginary beat of the
Humidifier’s hum,
As I lay here writing
In my oh-so-comfortable bed.

And then I hear you shut off
The bathroom faucet —
A sure sign that you’ll soon be
Crawling under the sheets
To fall asleep next to me.

And when that happens,
That’s when I’ll put down my pen
And grab onto your arm instead —
The one that you’ve slung
Over my oh-so-aching body.

And then carefully I will listen,
Over the humidifier’s hum,
For your soft, peaceful moan,
That tells me our day is done.

Train of Thought

Right before sleep, my mind often wanders down a wayward track.

I still haven’t figured out why,
but the whistle of a faraway train
sounding at night greatly comforts me,
as I lay in bed fending off the
impending militia of sleep.

Maybe it’s because the passengers are out there,
grappling with bone-numbing gusts
and the Great Dark Unknown;
which reminds me that I am the opposite of that —
In here.
Safely nooked away.
Accounted for.

But does that mean that I derive pleasure
from the mental and bodily distress of others?
That my only concern is how I, alone,
am faring?

I sincerely hope not.

For that is clearly not the final thought
I want perambulating my mind,
As sleep marches ‘round the corner
and I gently lay down my arms.

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Without Flail

I’ve always been fidgety. Sometimes it drives me nuts.

After our good-nights, my hearing is acute,

I dial in the noises lost in the blur —

the sound of my toes scraping ‘cross the sheets,

this evening’s sniffle du jour.

With each minute, things exaggerate,

my fidgets fill the room entire.

Despite the crickets that abound,

a simple squirm grows ever-louder.

It will be long before my tics subside.

It will be long before I wriggle free

from this linen prison that enslaves

the slumberous side of me.

After our good-nights, my body grows tired

of the nonsense my routine entails;

and so I manage, eventually,

to fall asleep without flail.

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