Slow Roads

There's a pool out there I'm not allowed to use past nine.

There's a fridge with someone's name on all the cheese.

My cousin says stay as long as you need to —

and nobody knows how long you need. (hummmm)

The air mattress sighs all night,

it sighs all night,

letting summer out slow,

letting summer out slow.

By morning I

can feel the floor.

Forty-five and the ceiling fan's a helicopter home.

I count the rotations.

I get to four hundred.

It's the best sleep I've had all year.

I pump it back up every evening.

That's the whole trick,

apparently. You just keep pumping it back up.