Sleep Interrupted

Work kept me until two in the morning,
Factoring time to get home, eat, and actually fall asleep,
Slumber did not take me until four,
Yet here I am awake since nine-thirty,
A good son, going with my father to get an eye exam,
Because he’s getting dilated,
Like my frustration –

At his too-defensive driving,
At his deafness,
At his meandering suggestions,
His pauper mentality that has suffused me with limiting beliefs,
With his grief and his redundancy,
At pulling me out of a dead sleep,
Not just today but every day:
Blaring a television for his faulty hearing and because he’s afraid of silence,
Grinding ice for smoothie concoctions or in making chopped liver by the bucket load,
at phone calls that blare out his speaker and yelling because of his own inability to hear.

The interrupted sleep is not so much a travesty,
my dreams, when I can remember them, are not soaring anymore,
They are mundane and trivial,
like my lifestyle, they are boring
or frightful, loss and hurt and heartache,
at being abandoned and forgotten,
Of my shortcomings and failures,
Like my poetry,
If poetry were a dreamscape what I have been writing is a dream of juggling spinning hoops on a hillside, making them all roll in unison,
Triviality and busywork.

From where my father’s appointment is
Las Vegas looks little,
Like a city built for gambling beetles,
Who lose their carapaces at poker tables,
Their dung ball fortunes bet on black,
Who chitter on dance floors rubbing their legs together to make a sound pleasing to them alone
and I wonder if I am still sleeping,
The brightness about me not reality but some metaphor for hope in a dream I am still lolling in.

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One response to “Sleep Interrupted

  1. Wow–gorgeous, Mick. The sensory images here are raw and wonderful, like the TV volume turned up.

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