She cannot sleep. The bed is hard. It creaks.
The mattress is rucked up in tiny pleats
that welt her skin. The freshly laundered sheets
make her nose twitch. Awake six weeks

though it is her first night, and lurid dreams
of titans clashing, massive bills unpaid,
and airport corridors. She wakes afraid
and panting hard. The morning’s dingy beams

prick at her tired eyes. She finds the door.
There’s coffee brewing somewhere, she can smell
and with one sip, her plans begin to jel.
Sort out the bed – not sleeping is a bore –

Crush all her problems under stylish boots
with wit panache good hair and snazzy suits.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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