A Poem by M.W. Thomas
Sleep,
you abandoned me. Why?
For
whose sake?
For
what temptation of wine or song?
What
misdemeanor did I commit against slumber?
Was
it the slip of light that I allowed to escape the sash?
Was
it the squeaky weathercock I refused to oil last Autumn?
Was
it the Sartre I read past my bedtime?
A
Neanderthal entered my cave, a brute
He
demanded my ration of your elixir
And
laid across from me
A
stone knife carefully placed across his chest
Yes,
it will be 200,000 years before
I
adorn myself with my own talisman of plastic insomnia
Pythagoras! Do not even you have a theorem for my
nocturnal bliss?
Scholars! Academics!
Shall my slumbers be Form, Universal, or Substance?
Michael,
Gabriel, Rafael, bring me your heavenly wisdom!
I
fought on the savanah
Against
lions
Against
hyenas
Against
the other apes
But
mostly against the women
They
tamed me and commanded that I toil in the light and sleep in the dark.
With
broken back and broken dreams, I do neither
The
King has a City with Great Walls
Twelve
feet high and six miles long
He
demands husbanded animals and great yield;
He
demands fields of grain and great yield.
The
City fails
The
King from the North arrives with a great army
No
one sleeps. Many die
Where
is my blanket? I am cold
My
limbs seize hard and I cry from my toes
My
fingers drag at the fabric and do no better work by night than by day
I
smell like rotten eggs
A
little dog comes; she paws and nests, then settles in beside me
Her
nap is unlabored and sweet
Awake!
Shall
we go to the middens and see what we can find?
The
Philosopher laughs and calls me a Pauper
The
Poet laughs and calls me a Pretender
My
little dog heels and follows and wonders what we are getting to eat
I
wish for soup
I
wish for soup too hot to eat
I
wish I could have slept through his politics
His
boorishness; his wars
We
are uniquely loved by God says he
Yet
he makes me toss and turn at night
In
fits of fear
And
in the miasma of my own farts
I
was once a bright lad
Now
everyone is smarter than me
Who
are you? Who are you that now push me
aside?
Go
away sweet little dog. Find another
home. I can no longer care for you.
If
only Laughter were my Insomnia!
Though
a joke, this misadventure nevertheless a nightmare
And
for all its humor, the punchline unfit for children:
Cursed
be life, and blessed be death!
My
pharmacist is a good counter
A-One,
A-Two, A-Three!
He
sings as he spoons out my pills
Like
Lawrence Welk counting down the start of Autumn
Leaves
My
capsulated victuals come in all colors of the rainbow
And
fill my cabinets
I
feast on them according to directions
They
do not bring sleep
The
Interpretation of My Dreams is the Decay of Humanity
Sleep
is a wicked mistress
Sleep, you abandoned me
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