This used to be cartoon time.

My back doesn't care
if it's Saturday or not;
it'll only let me roll around
in bed for so long
before it reminds me
by means of dull aches
that it has other things to do.
This is what led me to my desk
on this particular morning, the
window open and fan on
due to the unseasonably warm weather
that almost made it too hot and stuffy
to sleep next to another person
last night. Almost.

I turn and look at the crumpled mass
hiding under the blanket, a delicate
yet muscular leg shooting out from
one end, a tangled nest of hair
draping over the pillows at the other.
The neighbor is mowing his dead lawn
for the third time this week
and I'm wondering if he really
hates his wife that much.

I glance over at my phone on my desk.
No one interrupted our slumber.
No one tried to get me to come out
and put on the show, the heavy-faced mask.
No one called for any reason.
Those are the good nights, when people
respect my walls enough to let me use them.

The urge comes to urinate so I rise and head
to the bathroom in the half-light of a cloudy 9 a.m.
When I come back in I hit the light switch
in the hopes of inspiring her to rouse herself
or at least let me read while she sleeps
but to no avail.
She groans something in the tone
of a cuter version of Frankenstein's monster
akin to what an elementary school student
would say to his mother about not wanting
to go to class that day.
I turn the lights back off.

"It's nine o'clock, Honey. We went to bed at midnight."
Then I come close to singing
some Jesus song my mom used to sing to me
about rising, shining, and giving God the glory
to further back my argument, but refrain
for fear of seeming a hypocrite.
"I know, but it's Saturday..."
It sure isn't much of a case
considering the both of us usually function
on a little less than two-thirds that amount of sleep
but it's enough to quiet my limp-wristed protest.
There's always the computer, there's always the rabbit.

I lay down beside her, thrusting my left arm under her neck
as she nestles her head in circular motions
in that spot between my shoulder and neck
right above my collar bone. It feels good for five minutes
but then my back starts to throb again.

She tells me about the dreams she had
without bothering to open her eyes.
"My friends and I went out
but we couldn't get into any of the bars.
And then you and I were about to get married
but you stood me up at the altar."
I wonder which nightmare was worse:
being denied alcohol, or being denied an alcoholic.
I rub her head and twirl a lock of hair
as she rolls back over and drifts off.
"OK, Sleepyhead. Get some more rest,"
knowing she didn't hear me.

A conclusion is drawn as I mull over what she said:
that damn mattress causes a lot of nightmares.
Must be something in the springs.

I get up out of bed again, done for good
with that cursed place for the morning.
Once she wakes up it'll be back to normal;
breakfast, brushing our teeth together, plans for the day.
Once I can turn on the light to read I'll be fine.
But like I said, until then
there's always the computer, always the rabbit.