Sunday never really measures up

This is another of those nights.
Every sound magnified.
The girl in the hat, in the picture, on my desk, staring right through me.
The lamp on my night stand is ten times brighter than it has ever been.
I have no pulse.
I have no spine.
I have no bananas.
There is nothing under my bed except shoes.
Where did all these hats come from?
My desk squeaks.
I close my eyes and I see news alerts, and weather alerts, and a dead baby goat.
It's the dead baby goat, the dead baby goat, the dead baby goat that bothers me the most.
That and the shoes under my bed.