Insomnia
He comes in without knocking,
takes a seat at your bedside
and wants to talk.
Sometimes about people you
used to know, but sometimes
he just wants to sing
about the Swede who cut his
finger off while slicing an
avocado.
Outside, the neighbor’s cat runs
through bushes.
A tiny jet flies somewhere
in the distance leaving a silent
trail behind it.
In the harbor something heavy
is dropped and the sound of
metal meeting the port echoes
against the hills and comes
in through the window.
You lean out of bed, look him
straight in the eye and ask,
How long are you planning on staying?
I have things to do tomorrow.
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