The face of the clock says it's time to get a job
but I'm far too busy nonconforming to each of your highest
standards and looking for a change of scenery to
even open all of that fucking mail.
The late nights help me see everything
except
the point when we're done preparing, tying our shoes—
it's your fault we're too tired to fall out of bed
and agitated far beyond the point of sleep—
sleep is leaving me. Alone, I mean.
cold sweats on 3 a.m. couches in front of phone sex
and Greeley State College leave me in a
panicked state of inebriation, too depressed to watch anymore
and missing sleep.
All of you and your false gratitude make me empty.
Maybe I should get out of this gutter and get drunker,
we're more ambitious that way and we've taken to sleeping
on loveseats, feigning sobriety and spritzing febreeze
because it gets the noise out.
Where would we be without these budding bushes?
and some time to finally burn the candle at both ends?
I'd love to come to your weekly swap-meet, but gas
is too, too expensive and I'm trying not to catch up on
all the work we do.
Now this is where I (we?) guffaw cynically and act
like I'm (we're?) not alone in my (our?) insomnia
Casey Rock
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-sleeping-sweating/
