The Overnight - Poem by Morgan Michaels
The overnight was accidental- it just happened. He fell asleep because it was impossible not to. Maia neither encouraged him nor objected.
At three o'clock, he woke, n-ked, and swung his legs out of bed. Slowly, he came fully conscious. Listening to Maia's light snoring, he realized he'd been dreaming of tractors. Far off, he could hear samba music and conga drums (because it was Friday night) . There were shouts and staccato from exhaust pipes that sounded like gun-fire, but different; then, a siren, which, had he known the difference, he'd admit sounded more European than American - more functional, less hysterical, even at a distance. He sighed, knowing the overnight would give his wife more ammunition for complaining. He didn't wish to give her ammunition, knowing it made her watchful. She might leak her grievance to her father, the general, whose annoyance would be palpable, next time they spoke. He might hiss 'well, was it worth it'? . Well, was it? He looked over at Maia...
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