Every night

I walk into the room and

see you lying on the

couch.

 

A movie is playing

but you nod in and out

of scenes, and

 

I wonder if it is the

lying down or the thought of

reclining at the end of the day

 

(to watch a movie

thumbed apart,

smudged by the heaviness of your eyelids)

 

that you value like it is

time

snatched back

 

from the day that trod on your feet

 and knocked against your knees

until you keened forward, breathing hard

 

you say

‘Look’ and fold your arms across

your sleepy chest, battered legs cradled

in pillows,

‘look how I claim

 time back from you’,

 

and you

stubbornly blink to sleep

as if tomorrow might prove kinder.