(Special thanks to the "Subject" for all the inspiration. As Dwele put it: "All I ever needed was a Subject..") ;}
I watch you slumber and envy the pillow that gets to whisper the poetry of peace to your eardrum beat. I ruminate from my station that Drew would trade places with the bag full of goose down upon which you threw down the syncopated soundwaves of your tangled mane. The pillow alone gets to cradle your face, singing it to sleep, calling it “baby”. And it is at that instant that I realize the fallibility (hmm..“fall ability”?..) of being so into something that is so out of this world. Your presence kills my gloom. Your effervescence fills my room. But your distance from me even when you’re near me builds my doom. I want to ask you if you need anything, but your face leaks with contentment, and my mother would always get annoyed when I would ask a question that I already knew the answer to. I’m your night watchman, jealous in advance of the man who will one day have this view every night and take it for granted.
My imagination gives form to your function. Like the way you sleep on your stomach with your arms behind your back? Foolish hope allows me to interpret it as your subtle surrender to me, assuming handcuff position…In reality, you probably only sleep like that so your arms won’t fall asleep. But I’ve never seen anything like it, and it wraps itself around my wonderment like that giraffe at the zoo around which crowds gasp and say “ooh” though in the wild it was just another giraffe and it honestly probably preferred that distinction (or lack thereof).
One less intuitive would surely deem this a “boring” job. They would clock in at midnight and record the doldrums of clipped boredom on their clipboard. “1:17. Subject sleeps. 3:36. No activity to record. 5:22. Subject at normal state. 7:59 a.m. Relieved by day shift staff.” Yes, one less intuitive would surely deem this a “job”. But for my part, this watchman instead will tend to use his feather quill pen to tickle your softest parts of speech. “Midnight. This night watchman is relieved to relieve the 4-to-12 shift personnel for this subject’s very snore is a precious ore and this watchman’s thirst propels him to take this clipboard and let his cursive spell the little that his mortal mind and furtive stealth can interpret well of the verse she tells…12:01…the subject’s signs are vital; she’s got this watchman open though her eyes are wide closed; each restful breath crashes the crest of her breasts and her slight nasal congestion marks the high note…12:02…SUBJE! CT TURNS HEAD APPROXIMATELY SEVEN CENTIMETERS LEFTWARD!…THIS NEW PERSPECTIVE ALLOWS FULL VIEW OF RIGHT NOSTRIL’S RHYTHMIC DILATION IN TIME WITH SUBJECT’S BREATHING PATTERN…UNPRECEDENTED RANGE OF MOTION!…SO REMARKABLE THAT THIS WATCHMAN IS ALMOST UNABLE TO REMARK…”
My clipboard never has enough sheets.
I’m simply attempting to impart to you that you amaze without trying. You blaze without firing. You rise from the grave on the third day without dying. And as I watch you sleep I want to protect you but it is angels who are supposed to protect mortals and not the other way around. You asleep is much like you awake, in that you are both oblivious to the poetry that you inspire. I am blessed to keep watch over your respite just as I am cursed to sigh over you without requite. I am forbidden contact with you like the pre-cogs in "Minority Report". I am your night watchman, and every shift with you is horribly short…
© 2004, Drew Anderson, all rights reserved.