I suffer so from poor sleep—

Interrupted sleep, to be precise.

(I can barely keep my eyes open after nine pm)

And once again, last night,

awoken by noise and movement,

I found myself staring at the digital display

on the clock radio:

 1:30

(I was unlucky, it’s usually more like

3:10 or 3:30 or even 4:00)

 

 

When this happens, I know

I’ll toss and turn for a long,

time-devouring stretch,

awash in thoughts of everything

unresolved in my life, feeling flushed,

ants of anxiety under my skin.

Sometimes, if four is antemeridian, and

I find myself awake, I forfeit the sleep

in exchange for time alone which

is nothing like lonely or uneasy,

but feels rather more like time stolen,

appropriated from the Universe and

made mine.

There’s a cost to this brazen shoplifting

of minutes and hours—a penalty.

Research shows that the hours unslept

are snatched from the end of our lives.

(I learned this only this week)

This seems unjust, and yet

While I covet the dream of deep and vital sleep,

I’m caught red-handed with the irony

that I did in fact fall back into sleep sometime

after 1:30 this morning, held on tight till

7:02 and have felt cheated

and pressed for time

ever since.