Advice so frequently given
it’s almost an instinct:
Don’t go to bed angry.
But what if we’ve been hearing it wrong,
forgetting a comma and a capital letter:
Don’t go to bed, Angry? What if
Angry is a being? A trollish
essential worker. Angry’s job is
a work-through-the-night position.
Angry doesn’t and shouldn’t sleep, runs
on maintenance shop coffee and off-brand corn chips.
Chows down on liverwurst on white with mustard
at 2:37 AM. Fuels up to poke your fires
all damn night. Burns off the reluctance
and the civilization you cherish
to keep you warm and alive. Angry
gets a bad reputation only because
they’re working class efficient, proletarian
strong in the face of the Big Bad.
Get up and see Angry at the foot
of your bed holding your armor.
Go to bed, Angry. Thank you for keeping watch.
We should count on you more than we do.
We ought to take a note, stay up, see
what the Big Bad’s been up to
while we sleep. You can whet a blade better
in the dark, at any rate — see the sparks,
smell the burned metal. Angry
keeps us honest, ready. Don’t go to bed,
Angry, as long as there are billionaires to scare.