Your wife bids you ‘don’t let the bed bugs bite’
To the pathological insomniac
Knowing those terse shoulders
And uneasy feet are just aching
From a bed bug attack. Only they are not
Crafty insects just a little syndrome
Of an overactive thyroid
You outpace everything around you
Hyper is just a symphony of twitching muscles.
And an anxious lung. All the while, swarming
Mosquitoes run circles around you.
Swat becomes a holy ritual
To ward off a bout of Malaria.
And all you want is to lay idle
Until you’re walking past the liminal
A fat stooge for a teasing lullaby
And all you can do is count the sheep
Until you run out of whole numbers.
And you’re primed to run a marathon
In your pajamas. That’s how you feel
In gut and bone and when you least expect it,
On the brink of the 8768th sheep,
You feel a little relaxed and strange
The sheep becoming hazier, a little distant,
A blip on the horizon, as you round past
The tipping point.
And your body drifts to a limpness,
An inertia, of how one by one
The limbs give way. A little ghost town
Appears, drifting toward a continuum,
Effacing the weariness, the fatigue.
While on the main street
You find a salon serving drinks
All night, even at the break of dawn.
Just about a pint or two of blood
To a lone cowboy pointing a cocked gun
Lock, stock and barrel.