Mike Bell/ June 11, 2016/ 0 comments

Can you offer
an explanation
of the thumping
of exhaustion

which puts me in
an old stuffed chair,
tired enough
to then sleep there?

Forty winks,
becomes two hours,
losing my waking,
ancient powers;

stiff in the neck,
with gum-raw mouth,
noticing the sun
has since moved round,

poking me:

But behind
the soft-pulled door,
under the tugged-blanket,
I’ll sleep some more.

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