Irreconcilable Sleep

Set the alarm clock,

turn out the light,

fumble under the covers,

rest your head on the pillow,

and silently stare up.

The ceiling fan,

the cracked paint,

the outdoor lights reflecting,

the low hum of traffic,

the thudding of neighbors.

Roll over onto your left side,

find the cool spot on the pillow,

close your eyes,

the wheels of your mind spinning,

dwelling, remembering, wandering.

That time you kissed the wrong girl,

that time you made a fool of yourself,

that time you embarrassed yourself,

that time you cried,

that time you regretted.

Shake your head in the pillow,

clear your throat,

tell yourself to forget it,

move on,

leave it.

Drift to light sleep,

dreams of sex, loves, fears,

noises too loud to be real,

old hag sitting on your chest,

a dragging, pulling sensation.

Realize your dreams are not real,

roll over to your right side,

grumble with annoyance at your merciless dreaming,

breath slowly,

mutter to yourself about the time.

Sleep, irreconcilable sleep.

Wake before the alarm,

remember the long dream,

about her, about you, about the

look on her face, your face.

Go to the bathroom,

reeling with ghostly memories of

the unsettled sleep,

passing into nothing by the time

the water in the shower hits your face.