WHAT ENDS ME
Trivial pursuits.
Telephones and lack of same.
Sleep that comes only unbidden
but, when it comes, does not refresh,
wakes me only to yesterday's slate skies
and the breakfast buffet of fears.
Not even new fears but the same,
in squealing cycles:
the question of how to make it
from seven AM until it's time
to go, perhaps, to sleep.
Welcome to the screen door on a windy night
that slams against the house at 3 AM
chipping paint
pounding wood to pulp
teasing me with clocklike rhythm,
a water torture that cannot cease
will not relent,
victim and victimizer locked
in an embrace neither can break.
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