Concave

I've been up since four.

The coffee was going cold when I caught it—

my face in the bowl of the spoon,

upside down,

the forehead enormous, blown out

like something left in water too long,

the chin almost gone.

Two weeks of bad sleep

pressed into a shape

I didn't recognize right away.

Behind me, the window was gray.

Not rain. Just gray

in the way that means

the day has nothing particular planned for you.

I looked at the face.

I thought: whoever that is

has been outside for a while.

Then I drank the coffee.

Still cold.