Since I can't sleep, I thought this poem would be appropriate. Yet another one from my vintage collection. Enjoy!
Lines Composed Between the Hours of and
Half roused and drowsy am I
Lead by the hollow clapping of leaves
Down through the dim lit corridors of my mind
An endless procession of concrete that bends
And weaves among the dusk-deserted stores.
Windows glisten with the sterile shine
Like that of so many oft-used bar tops
As the moon climbs into the open-handed trees
Spilling, as sand through a loosely clenched fist,
Moonbeams through the dark branches.
Outside, the doleful footsteps can be heard
Scratching over the sidewalk like mouse feet
Scurrying across broken down cardboard boxes.
They are the malleable slick-skinned consistencies
With which the sticky sleep itself
Finds difficult to adhere to.
To these hapless fellows
The warm caresses like rain water,
Beads on the backs of flightless birds.
And sleep comes on only necessarily
Like saran wrap over a partially eaten dish.
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