20 Winks
Sleep has its idealized form:
the gentle pajama night,
with blue cotton ticking and
soft lilac light
and crickets not too far away,
the summer caress of silky smooth
sheets, or winter’s flannel comfort.
But in this urban brightland,
night comes on like a headache—
determined and harsh,
something to get through,
and never quiet
never still.
It is my own fault, I think. I never
installed the blackout curtains
every urban sleeper should have,
and I thwart the advice of experts who say
Only the bed.
this room is sacred--
use only for sleeping and sex.
Who are they kidding? Even the man
I sleep next to
brings his portable office
into my room, this room
where all my work happens—
this bed just another work surface,
the floor just a catchall
staring up at the ceiling,
itself just a net for revisions.
- monica smith