Diana Devlin: Let Sleeping Dogs . . .

On this sliver of king-size bed they’ve allotted me
I lie, mimicking a dead cod. Rigor mortis
isn’t a patch on me.

Fat cat to my left, limbs outstretched
like Superman in flight, upturned belly plump full,
vibrating drum, toes lined up pea pod perfect.

To my right, a snoring bucket of bones called Dog
presses deep, like memory foam was made for him.
Who dares disturb his doggy dreams?

I rotate, screw-like, in my groove as they spread out
like husbands. It’s no use. They’re in cahoots
and I can whistle for my sleep tonight.