The Interface

A head, tilted downward,
Exerts 60 pounds of pressure
On the neck and spine
And yet we cannot shake it:
Each new day bringing
More data to process,
More cud on which to chew:
Bits and bytes through the interface

I lay in bed resigned to it, though
I'm more concerned about surviving
Yellowstone erupting, or a
Nuclear explosion, or some
Other unavoidable calamity in time
But when I rise this fear is gone
Because I am awake

In between I hear what sounds like
My window cracking from the cold
Then, my partner's breathing slows;
Inhaling possibility