Not For Me

I found the thread at half past one —

the old ones, the ones I should have cleared —

and read them through until I'd done

whatever it is you do. Appeared

to finish. Put the phone face-down

across my chest and tried to close

my eyes. The ceiling. The dull brown

of almost-dark. The way it goes

when you've been awake that long, the mind

still chewing. Then at five the birds

came through the cracked window, the kind

of cheerful that has no regard

for anything below it. Not

a comfort. Not the gentle cue

of morning — just the full-throat shot

of we are here, and not for you.

I lay there while the ceiling lightened.

The phone still on my chest, face-down.

The birds still going. Nothing brightened

anything. The slow gray crown

of morning came the way it does —

without permission, without care

for what the night was. What it was

is still there. I'm still there.