A party’s breaking up nearby,
you can tell by the cadence of the voices;
people talking on the steps,
one group headed for the car,
the others dying to go in and go to sleep.
I’m here listening
from my nightly awake
with the nightly heartburn,
the nightly insomnia,
the nightly no soild sleep.
I don’t want to talk to my heartburn,
coax it halfheartedly to stay
in order to get it to see how badly it wants to leave
because it won’t leave, who are we kidding?
It lives to rouse me from sleep.
I don’t want to talk to insomnia,
we don’t speak the same language,
doesn’t understand why it’s unwelcome
and I get nowhere when I explain —
by nature and nurture, it has no desire to sleep.
I wish I knew my neighbors well enough
to go to their parties, to drink enough while I’m there
to make the passing out once I’m home
at least understandable, if not socially acceptable.
If I were socially acceptable, I maybe could sleep.