It was YOU, no doubt, you blasted, late evening cup of Nespresso

with your luscious Guinness – like head of crema,

the black and tan of non-alcoholic delights,

your nutty flavor with the slightly robust finish,

<can anything be slightly robust?>

sinful, rich, dark, smooth, not-to-be-ignored temptation,

dastardly beverage brewed from the fruit of Colombian mountains,

drunk at the end of a lovely evening of hugs from friends.

YOU stole my sleep,  just when I craved it,

needed it to free my brain of a week of mortgage nonsense.

I needed that sleep, you yellow-bellied, pusillanimous bastard!

NEEDED it, damn it!

Now look at me,  sitting here in near pitch blackness

pecking away at keys on this callous machine,

shooing off the cat who is also now awake, mewling for attention.

Oh!  I know just how this endless, sleepless, leg shaking night will end.

Know it as surely as the night is cold, and long, and dark,

“darker than the inside of goat,” one long lost beloved would say.

I will sit here searching for synonyms which will lead me down long dead ends,

diverting my focus; twisting my tale into meaningless drivel.

Then I will pace the room; pull at my hair, shed my robe, put it on again,

stand in front of the fridge, not really hungry, not really looking,

sit back down poised to write something brilliant, monumental…

then, when I have stared long enough at this  uncaring, back-lit screen,

I will sit down somewhere, but not in my bed, to finish Mystery on the Isles of Shoals

the outcome of which I have already studied, about which I have wondered for years,

and I will fall asleep, hitting deep, REM sleep as never before, until my book

crashes -as in “crash (verb) fall or come down violently” – to the floor

finally awakening me to go to bed where I will gladly sleep the sweetest sleep of the night

waking only when the sun is streaming through the window,

when I will stretch, scratch Emil’s ears and brew another cup of YOU.






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