Sleep…

Was it the affogato from brunch? Was it the afternoon nap? Was it the chill from the sunroom windows, the thump of the clothes dryer or the bookmark halfway and unresolved in a hardcover on the coffee table? Or was it Sunday evening, always too quiet, a yellow bucket scratched from doorway bumps and heedless kicks, a hand-drum in quitting and closing hours, a beggar’s stool or aide to a kitchen mop, a footrest and lunch-pail and pedestal and parade hat, because days needed bucket hats and parading, carried from calendar to calendar and plan to plan, poured full of expectations but unable to tip into the week any faster.