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Nashville Hotel Room

You lay next to me, asleep
under the stiff floral blanket, 
snoring like an asthmatic pug.
I sit here, awake, staring 
at the painted-over crack 
in the ceiling and wondering
how you can adjust so smoothly
to sleeping in a different 
time zone.

For me it’s not so easy.
Having to remember to subtract
an hour from the car radio, 
but not from my watch, 
which you reset for me already.
Having to work out 
what time is dinnertime 
and when Conan O’Brien 
comes on.

Constantly amazed 
by your ability to sleep 
in strange situations,  
I become an insomniac,
too afraid to see what people 
dream when they’re 
an hour behind.

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