The Living Rests Still

My neck hurts an achy whine
From the sleep I never got,
And from the hour-and-a-half I sat awake, letting the pillow bunch against my neck, more restless than I.
I cannot help but laugh at myself
Sitting in the living room that is so hardly alive.
Sitting upright, and my mind so far below.

The shelves that line us are ornate and intricate in their show and yet calculated;
The same three Arab coffee pots, yellowed, and standing tall at their post on either side.
A row down, books line the inner corners, a bowl in the middle, stacked against vases rich in resin.

Teta reading a book that contends with the masses of bold width, clutching it as if it could pry its way from her hands.
The book is green to her eyes, she says,
But it seems an ivory blue which lines the cover under her grasp.

Baba sleeping with sneakers from 2014, still clinging to his feet with a wool sock's embrace. Their blaring orange isn’t quite
a timeless accessory, but they do not wear their six years.
And his foot occasionally twitches with the music that can only be described as strident in its every chord and call.

I don’t know where the music is coming from.
I am waiting for my tea to cool down enough so I can drink it without disrupting this idle cherry gloom that glosses over us.