Watching A Cat Fall Asleep

It was 8 in the morning.
The muted sun had risen, of course,
like a blanched sand dollar, just a white disc out there
in between the trees.
And I had my own brain in my lap.
I was soaping it, massaging it,
I didn’t want my wife to see that—my sad little brain
being washed underneath the covers. I hid him in there
for his own good, and mine.
He was a secret; I kept him quiet with the end of a swiss army knife.
Somewhere, a violin and trumpet
bowed to one another and took off their hats.
Their heads were bloody. They put the hats back on.

Her eyelids pinch shut like a clam breathing, then
pop open, then close again. What is it in her
cat brain that fires?

God, I’ve really made a mess in here.
I’ll have to mop the floor and disinfect;
The chickadees will be invited as pallbearers;
Don’t call my mother. She’ll be too upset
to move.