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.