Sleepless in a dry month

His boots do him no good in a dry house,
Not in a bonewhite light, not in a carbon paper
Night — his eyes look through the peepholes
Of sleep, under the mizzling sky, under
The moon’s grimace face. He suffers the toss
And the turn in a desert pillow, parched
Dreams trying to stretch in all directions;

Irritating sandman appearing over and over
In a cracked looking glass — perchance not to sleep
Though, perchance not to dream of adolescence
And parental faces in bubblegum wrappers,
Always stern, never cheerful, memories jostled
About like bugs in a windy garden, poked
By the stick of a storm, ominous and black.

He is immune to dosing pills, sugary substances
That influence his drinking water — used for
Baptisms and watering dried daisies, each gesture
Fleeing down the empty alley of insomnia;
He is worn out by the tedium of listless evenings
And dull reading of old seed catalogs, their blackened
Pages much like the never ending twilight.

The inside of his head is filled with gray matter,
Brainwashed and fatigued, damaged integral
Parts like a pocket-watch in need of repair —
And the slots of his eyes growing weary like a
Granite yard of gravestones; tired bones creeping
Into a bed, lying there without privacy of a
Sleep, and elsewhere houses are darkened.

Nightlong, invisible daylight peeking — draining its
Sun into a landscape, into a room; waking
Half asleep, wide-open eyes stiffened into a morn;
He lives tired in an incessant sluggishness, body
Always aching, no life for awhile, he is an old man
In a dry month, looking for rest in a sleeping snatch,
To be a tenant in a rented dream, the shuddering night.

Copyright © 10/27/17 lance sheridan®

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2 comments on “Sleepless in a dry month

  1. Barbara says:

    Oh my Lance these images came alive in this reader’s mind to magnify unbelievable imaginations as if I was right in the middle of the scene. I’d say, “excellence stands out!” Your poetry pulls at the imagination of this reader and I’m sure it does the same to others.

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