Pig-In-A-Blanket

I wake up, bound tightly. A warm, valerian smell cascades to my palate. I can only move my eyelids and toes. Heat sits impishly on my chest, at my throat, curtains of it brushing against me. Panic creeps out of my armpits. I can only move my eyelids and toes, and this constant fluttering lulls me to sleep. I awake late and move like a bee through the apartment, from station to station from the blue flame to the shimmering disc. From the stairs to the street, to the grocery store. To the meat aisle. To the cocktail wieners. To make pigs-in-a-blanket, to share them with friends. To sink into bed, to bind myself tightly in blankets, to flutter off into sleep, and then on past sleep, to be carried by admirers across a wooden bridge. Later I will burn this bridge.