poem a sometimes, i guess

I HAVE CONFLICTING FEELINGS ON THE SUBJ.

Sleep, after all, is a kleptomaniac

who steals moments and hours,

hoarding them until the time is right--

when it can appear from behind the couch

shouting SURPRISE, and saying that after all

this time, it has learned the lesson:

a life is for all cycles of the sun and moon. But

every time the room is empty, the last light

turned on with a timer to make-believe

someone is home to ward off the burglars, the

ne'er-do-wells, and you

who will never return

have gone. Or else, less often,

you and sleep sit across from each other,

the bags under your eyes darkening

as you look at the opened present on your lap

realizing that you had asked too rashly,

that you never really wanted this. Wondering

how long it has been since you both ran out

of things to say and

when you get

to open that other, really big present.