You wake up at three

and prop yourself up on your shoulders,

shrugging the sheets down your front

and staring at the wall in front of you.

Maybe if you stare long enough

you will tunnel your way

through the brick and mortar

and see the bright air

that will remind you

of all the time still left in the day.

Barring that, there's just

the yellow overhead light

that you haven't even bothered to turn on

for thirty whole minutes.

You roll like an oil slick

out from your cocoon and over the edge

to spin circles on the ground,

noting the gaps in the poorly lain tile.

You flop onto your side,

contemplating the pros and cons

of lifting yourself off of the floor.

You won't be hungry

for another hour at least.

Maybe it's time

to take a stroll

to a quiet spot,

where everyone passing

will just think you're waiting for a friend,

where you'll gain license to just

sit

and sit, and sit,

without this funny feeling you've got

about laying here

and staring at these chair legs right now.

You scoot over to your shoes

that you always put on and leave on

in these situations,

like their presence

will somehow guilt your feet into moving,

instead of slipping them off hours later,

and giving up on the feeling

of going anywhere.