I have been noticing the delicate dusty webbing
drifting near the fluorescent light, filling the corners
in the spaces between self and the books below.
All manner of details arise: static on phone calls,
the whine of my computer fan, looming deadlines;
certain memory and judgment skills, names, math.
These and other details had been absorbed by
the yellow and red capsules that were supposed
to help me sleep. They had been prescribed by the
doctor at the sleep clinic. I had taken them for
two and a half years. My family doctor was upset:
They are addictive, he said, and for people in
your age group, they affect your mental abilities,
making you kind of stupid.
I couldn’t argue with that.
He prescribed something else to help me sleep.
I shall not start taking it until I start feeling the texture
of the concrete under the carpet when I swivel
my office chair. I just hope I don’t start tossing and
turning over that pea under the mattress again.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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