Thread Count

Worn thin between warm cotton sheets,

they ask themselves if they turned off

the heater, oven, iron, and coffee pot?

Her hair spray and his shaving cream

that used to flirt in whispers,

now hiss and hasten armageddon.

In bed, he hears glaciers dripping;

she listens to the night sky ripping.

They are counting on sleep for a shred

of relief. They count sheep
and their blessings and 400 threads.
They keep counting.

first published in Scholars & Rogues