By Parson Thru
My sleep is stolen from the strongroom of the night.
I turn the light on, pour myself a drink.
Hear the floorboards, then footsteps passing by my door.
A night-freight connects me to the life that went before.
The room is cluttered. Piles of books. Cases for guitars like sleeping beasts.
Which perfectly depicts my mind's itinerant and temporary state.
I send a WhatsApp. But it seems she’s not awake.
And I’m glad of this, imagining the noises of the compound, pictures by her bed.
My head swarms with formal metre and systemic rhyme.
The stench of urine fills the room. Soles sticky on the vinyl floor.
I pour a drink, listen as another freight fades out into the night.
Close the book, count the hours till morning and turn out the light.