A friend I once loved is meeting a deadline.
Another friend is lying awake, laying her life out
like a roll of fresh lawn in her mind, covering up
whatever has grown sparse or died.
My musician friend is turning the key in the lock
of the back door to his basement suite, thinking
about a shower and one last drink.
My mother is leaning over a cup of hot steam and wondering
if I’ll keep the promise I made to her about nursing homes
when I was fifteen.
My childhood friend is nursing her daughter and deciding
if it’s worth it to go back to bed, or best to stay up
and do a week’s worth of laundry while she can.
I have fed my baby now, too, and for a while have watched
my family sleep when he arrives – handsome, lanky, unshaven.
I slowly rise and follow, bringing my bedside pen.