The mattress built for two with the valley in the middle
squeezes us together--just two pieces of meat in a cloth bun,
the girl who sleeps in moments meets the boy who knows better
but ignores it, ignores her except when she sleeps;
she's only pretty with her eyes closed.
During daylight, she dresses in layers against
the Minnesota cold stares and niceness--
keeps her heart like her eyes, closed
nose filled with icicles blocks out the air
and errant questions in a work setting--
sticks to cut and dry numbers for warmth.
The office babe only when she's blinking,
she looks surprised by it.
She sleeps past alarms and leftover lovers,
pretends to be asleep, meek, and satisfied
at thirty long enough to peek at where she's going next,
walking with her eyes closed.