so I stir it into murky brown tea.
The tinkering teaspoon talks
to the walls; the chair sighs beneath me.
The tea, with milk, curdles,
like a game of hide and seek with sleep —
a waste of waking hours,
acerbic on the tongue.
It’s 6:00 am and I pack
the brown bags under my eyes,
full to bursting, which is to say
I haven’t slept a wink.
The rectangular clock
on the white wall has lost time.
It’s slow — it’s orange though —
so I will take it to my grave
like an ancient Egyptian queen
sauntering beyond the veil,
just so I can cheat a little,
play a magic trick,
having lived five minutes more
than what they would think.
My ornate headstone would read —
‘Time passes slowly here,
thankfully.’
It’s 6:30 and the house
sparrows are a riot
in my balcony —
rain sodden, guilt ridden
cacophony, which dies as I
slide the door open to ask them
if I can hit snooze on that alarm.
Their hungry eyes greet me
with excitement, and I, living,
barely, between alarms and
anxiety, give them grain, wondering,
which of us is smarter.
Sleep is tomorrow’s problem now.