You fall back into sleep like a feather onto a down pillow:
All slow-mo and sweet, as if you were dreaming
of soft ice cream before your head puffed the pouf.
My assault on the sleep mechanism starts me screeching:
standing beside the tracks while a giant steam locomotive
gleaming and glaring, grinds hot sparks off the tracks
when the engineer whacks the steam valve too hard.
When I think of sleep,
it is all shovels and lifting
and levers and gears and clanging;
asking to sleep is like a village oaf
begging for slops from
the servants’ kitchen.
I would love to loft off to the palace of sleep
but your princess with the pea
is my kracken with the pile of steel junk
and every piece clangs in my head
with every rasping bellow
from my screeching gas sacs.