It's Not About You

It's three a.m.
and I can't sleep.
But it's not about you.
I find another pillow,
readjust my postion,
flip it over to the cool
side. I open a window,
turn on the light.
I pick up my half read
book on the history
of the New York City
subway system. I read
three more pages,
then get up and go
downstairs, turning on
lights as I go. The dog
wakes up too and follows
me down, yawning,
stretching, wagging
his tail. I check all
the doors in the house
to make sure they are
locked, then turn the light
on in the kitchen. I open
up the trash can to see
what the smell is. I
open the fridge, take
a bite of yesterday's
pizza and grab a beer.
I give the dog some crust,
then got to the couch,
locate the remote and find
a movie on tv. North by
Northwest. I flip around
the channels, steak knives
being sharpened, plasma
tv's on sale, how to be
a truck driver or a chef
in thirty days. John Wayne
killing Indians. I go back
to the Hitchcock movie
and think bad thoughts
about Eva Marie Saint.
The beer makes me sleepy
so we go back upstairs, me
and the dog. I climb
back into bed, the dog
puts his head on my chest.
He's staring at me, wanting
the light off, but I'm still
wide awake. I see a lot
of dust on the fan blades
as they slowly spin at
the ceiling, so I turn off
the light. It's four fifteen.
I think about calling you, or
e-mailing you, or texting you,
to tell you that I love you,
but I don't. I still can't sleep,
but really, it's not about you.