We go from bed to bed
at my house,
when sleep plays possum
and narcolepsy
becomes the disease of choice.
Not the pain of an arthritic shoulder,
looking for a mattress
whose hands are firmer.
In which case
I pass Mary in the hall,
chanting the song of insomnia,
can’t sleep, can’t sleep,
heading for the other bed.
And we pass in the night
two star-crossed lovers
doomed to solitude.
Later,
like weary travelers
we pass again,
muttering our sad litany,
can’t sleep, can’t sleep,
in search of our vanished rest.
And I wonder
What do bears do
in their caves,
squirrels in the trees,
rabbits in their burrows,
when their bodies ache,
their minds go off,
and they stroll
through dark ravines.
Hop from branch to branch,
trade tunnels,
until dawn breaks,
and they wonder
where in hell they are?