Broken Sleep

It’s noon, that’s right, twelve noon,

Tired to the marrowbone,

Still in a nightgown,

Definitely lying down

In bed – a gossip mag-

My sister in-law throws my way.

Here, because at seventy-

(poetic license) sleep is dear;

Here, a tray

of red,

Milk, honey, bread

Precariously balanced

Between multi-pillowed head

And glossy magazinéd thigh,

The daily start retarded.

Fallen angels fall, most likely,

From a lack of energy.

(Any way you cut it,

It is luxury.)

Broken Sleep 12.5.2008 (revised 2.23.2013)

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Circling Round Energy; Circling Round Wrinkles;

Arlene Corwin