in twenty-twenty-six, in mid-
February, a man who can’t sleep
shields his small flashlight with his hand
above his notebook so the light
isn’t detected by drones
and sketches one peach
on a plate on the kitchen table
in the apartment where he
was a child. Snores
near him
remind him of
sneaking into his parents’ bedroom
on weekend mornings. His father
under the covers
near his mother,
their shapes
under the pale bedspread.
.
John Levy
.