Insomniac.
It is that hour;
one suspended,
curtainlike, shielding
dawn. She took to
her bed sometime
around noon, hoping
for at least a smoothing
of facial lines, softening
of eye shadows, re-laying
of conciousness.
But brainwaves blunder
on regardless. Restless
thoughts drive even a
napping cat to insomnia;
nightwatchmanlike from his
post at the window.
Now she could sleep.
But it is too late
too late...
The clock of small
hours chops time up
with swinging arms
dropping off seconds
like slices of chilled ham,
each one slapping down
onto a cold slab night.
...too late.
tick tock
slap slap
tick
slap
tock
too
late
Dawn lifts sunlight
into night's inky pool
spreading gold and
scarlet streaks through
black, tipping early
bird wings with fire.
But she sleeps.
© Berenice Dunford 2006.
