Face Down

I was face down on the table.

My cheek pressed against

cold wood.

I could smell the cleaner used

to wipe it down.

Feet curled under my chair.

Butt in seat.

I could hear the ticking

of a clock.

The sound of someone

mowing the lawn a

couple houses down

wiggled in

through the cracked window

and mingled with the

light hrrm of the refrigerator.

Puppy feet tap danced

across the floor.

I was breathing.

I got up.