Scripture for the Disorganized

The air conditioner is screaming in the wall,

a metal-on-metal grind that makes my teeth ache.

You’re on the far side of the mattress,

breathing too heavy to actually be asleep.

I pulled the drawer open just to hear it squeak.

There it was—the black leather, the gold leaf peeling.

I turned to the same page I found in Omaha,

the one about the birds not worrying,

folded so many times the paper has turned

to a soft, gray felt.

Someone circled the verse in blue ink,

pressing so hard they nearly tore the world in two.

I don't know if they ever found a way

to stop the shaking,

or if they’re just in another room tonight

listening to the same mechanical moan.