Sometimes I fantasize
about a sofa that appears only to me
in the bathroom

So that when a certain three-and-a-half-year-old climbs into our bed before dawn, sweetly saying “I want to be with you, Mommy” and handing me his lion to snuggle with and asking to hold my hand but then proceeds to cough repeatedly into my face
and poke his finger into my throat
and tap me on the nose
and plant his foot in my crotch
and bounce his dog on my boob
and take up my entire pillow
and exile me to the outer limits of the bed, generously granting me
six whole inches in which to lie down

And when I tell him to stop he asks “Why?” and I say
“Because it hurts, because it’s annoying,
because that’s my body and I don’t like you touching me like that,”
and he just repeats his question, “WHY?”

I can say, “I have to go potty, I’ll be right back.”
and escape into the bathroom, where,
instead of falling back asleep while sitting on the toilet
which has been known to happen
I can curl up on the couch
which is more of a loveseat really
upholstered in a garish Christmas plaid
remaindered at the furniture store
(my imagination modest at 5am)
shielded from germs and bathroom detritus
by Hermione’s protego totalum spell
of course there’s a soft fleece blanket in a clashing plaid
to keep me warm

No one else can see the sofa or knows that the bathroom
doubles in size to accommodate it
not all the time—
only when it is too early to wake up
—at least in my opinion
and I require refuge