Insomnia
It’s a country I sometimes visit
but I wouldn’t want to live there.
Even at 3 or 4 a.m., the bathroom’s
stainless steel fixtures, white tiles,
hold their own, maintain
a careful sanity. The blatant light rejects
any transfusion of darkness.
By adjusting the mirrors on the cabinet
I see myself in triplicate,
a bureaucrat’s dream. Outside
the city is a listless desert of neon,
street lamps outstay their welcome.
I am free to go but cannot.