a blunder

I know that i was done for when i couldn't tell the time.
we only have a digital clock,
bright and red,
shining even in the daylight.
I couldn't read it.
Words on the front of books
were legible,
an anthology of Shakespeare
and a collection of children's
books were clearly marked so,
but numbers and time
were obsolete.
"How long?" i'd keep asking.
"Ten minutes" they would both reply,
"Just like last time." Most likely
grown annoyed, but i was in no state
to consider anybody else's condition.
Moving from the couch to the backyard
was a task.
moving anywhere at all.
First, you'd have to snap back from whatever
universe you were so shakily exploring,
freezing cold and unable to tell whether or not
you'd pissed yourself.
Which you hadn't.
Holding a cigarette inches above your chest
trying to lie away ache,
but your bed feels like cardboard,
like your mouth,
with tiny prickles that can't be seen
but are everywhere.
A shower feels like rebirth
and the feeling only lasts until
you open up the curtain.
like a baby into danger,
ex-utero, screaming because
now you've rediscovered this terrible
shitty place.
The shivers return, and the couch
becomes a refuge.
It takes care of you
while you can't watch
movies or t.v.
it hold you. it holds on to you.
Then the warmth.
if you did anything intelligent you decided
to lose your mind early,
and the sun is still in the southwest sky,
bright and shining, soothing out the chill
you've had since noon.
Deep--breaths.
Smelling everything,
since you almost thought you'd lost it there.