Insomnia has given way to narcolepsy.
There are no dropped conversations,
or heads pillowed by dinner plates.
We weaned ourselves from food and talk long ago.
Most often the spells happen
behind the wheel--
though our vans know the way
on that rutted track...
from the school to the field,
from the studio to the shop,
A quiet circle of miles with banked left-hand turns.
We are found snoozing in front of the screen
heads limp, hands still,
sorry after-images of another's sun
burned beneath our eyelids.
We run on treadmills,
though our feet slap pavement.
The scenery is relentless:
a family portrait of houses
with identical marigold corsages.
Our beds know us intimately,
curled in fetal positions,
hugging our vitals to ourselves.
There are no dreams--
we can no longer follow the plot.
The rain, sun, wind--
just a soundtrack on an endless loop.
Alarms become white noise,
bedsheets are strait jackets,
our eyes slowly tracking
a spider on the ceiling.
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