you made your bed with
the quilt your grandmother made for you as a child,
     before she got sick.
you have it pulled across the mattress,
     severely taut,
just as she showed you.

it's late in the day,
yet summer sun still finds a way
to come in through the blinds.
     the slanted light draws lines across your arms

a distant hum -
the fan swivels back and forth
slowly shaking its head in disappointment,
     until you finally move,
reaching over to rip the plug from the wall;
silence