Make of me a bridge spanning
white noise machine waves
toward the charging makeup mirror 
on the dressing table, illuminated
green like the end of Daisy’s dock.

You stalk, securing the perimeter,
nightstand to pillow, back across 
to the bed’s ledge to warn 
your elderly brother off your turf,
compulsively repeating the circuit 
as many rounds as it takes 
for him to hop onto the dresser or
saunter off into another dark room for now.

I settle into a curve on my side, 
pillows between my arms and knees
another covering my torso and hip
lest they be exposed to the conditioned air 
and back claws when next you
spring from the floor, scale pillow mountain
and plop your heavy form, 
you pear-shaped fuzzy bean bag,
strategically behind my knees 
so I am pinned and cannot disturb
your throne while you bathe.