This Is Your Afternoon on Meds

At this point, your sleepiness
Is such that even sitting
Straight up in a straight-backed chair,

You lead a double, triple
Life—this quiet, sunny room,
Black cat at the windowsill,

The novel that you’re reading,
And matter-of-fact dreaming.
The cat sighs, already gone

Into its own dreaming nap.
The book crosses a graveyard.
You dream of the silver lake

Where you are telling a friend
About the cat and the book
And the drugs you have to take.

Your head jerks—you catch your hands
Literally gesturing
With non-existent objects,

Still at the shore of the lake.
The cat has recurled itself.
Wasn’t there a funeral?