Yvette Thomas

The Second Kind of False Awakening

I'm not going to make a fool out of myself for you.

You said, legitimately, what do you do when your dress needs hemming?
You didn't say it, but I understood.
I said, without looking, Nothing. I hate it. I throw it out.
No wonder you have no friends, you said
and left the apartment, now my dead grandmother's.

Outside: half-autumn and half-winter.
Outside: partial cloud cover and the pitiless rain.

In the second kind of false awakening, you're what's out of place.
No umbrella and no cap, melting like a candle, giving off that stuttering glow.

I wake up twice before the true light, gray, strikes.