Waiting Up
By Zarah Parker

Nothing is left but dust,
not a shadow of silhouette
and all things crash.

I lay my glasses on the floor,
my forehead rests on carpet
and even without the lenses
I notice dog hair.

The light flickers off
as the flicker of a morning’s
entrance beams through blinds.

And my mind rebels against
my eyes. Blinking slowly,
quickly, I fall asleep the moment
the bird sings.