first of many sleep studies.

the sleepy chinaman points his toe. his thickly-rimmed black glasses slumps. he wears shadow as a mask over the top of his face, the bottom left to the dull sun that gives every little hair on his chin definition. they each mean something different. there is the small twisted one, the long out-of-place one, and the spiraling one that does not belong to him. it leans against his shoulder and he presses his ear against it as a thing of comfort for silent sleepers. his greasy mess of swirling hair reigns over his head as clouds, predicting a storm to come. for now, he will sleep. he will trust in the wheels and roads of this world, just as we all will. he will blink a few times and wake and the worried dust around him will smile and welcome him home. what a funny man, they will say, as he steps off the bus forever. on to the next passenger, they will say. on to the next sleeper. he wrinkles his nose and swirls around all the great ideas that have been watching him. they rest like dust over his khaki pants, over his pointed shoes. they make up what belongs in the sunlight over his arms and what belongs in shadows. they run their silent fingers through his hair and sing lullabies in his unresponsive ears. perhaps his mother wished it this way. perhaps she crafted him with skin, with glasses, with shelter that would protect him from the thoughts, from the knowing. perhaps all our mothers did. but sometimes we bleed, and let them in, anyway. maybe he dreams he is cloud-hopping. maybe he dreams he is dead. surely he does not dream himself a father.