There is a large, fur-covered backpack on the spare bed.
When I sit up to look at it, it shakes and growls.
Is this happening in the real world or my head?
It is speaking now, a language without vowels
that I do not understand. This means I’m sane,
I hope. It really pains me to encounter
a backpack bouncing on a counterpane.
I’m reminded of Medusa when she found her
self skiing down a glacier without poles,
or helmet, obviously, or even skis.
She closed her eyes and slung her snakes like stoles
around her throat and screamed, ‘No fantasies!’