Being an insomniac is hard work—the hours are long
and jagged. I reach for the boss’s neck, and his throat

dissolves in my grip. I clutch the pillow like a ledge,
afraid no one will catch me if I let go and plummet

into zzz’s? My mind buzzes with airplanes
that carry only runways. A rooster paces

along the roof. A spider does back flips
on her silk trampoline. I rise, shower, shave

so I’ll wake with a five o’clock shadow. My face
will function like a timepiece. The minutes drift by

like giddy school kids wit strips of masking tape
over their lips. Soon the streets will fill with people

remembering themselves. Soon my eyes will sink
like silver dollars into my face, and I’ll sleep

like a herbivore on a bed of hamburger meat, like a zit
on the chin of a beauty queen. Sleep straight through

the alarm clock’s strange town. Sleep like a nun’s
clitoris, like a bird bonked on the head with a golf ball.

Oh sleep, why do you refuse to let me in
till I’ve given up pounding on your door?