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Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Sleep Is For The Foolish
I lay in bed,
I stare up at the ceiling,
I count the holes,
I begin to wonder,
Is there something better?
I could read a book,
I could watch TV,
I could do my homework,
I could write a story,
I could even shower.
But no that’s not me,
I lay in bed,
I stare at the ceiling,
I count the holes,
Nothing seems better.
I think about life,
What do I have?
This bed,
This blanket,
This old ragged pillow.
This is all I have,
So I lay in bed,
I stare at the ceiling,
I count the holes,
I wait till dawn.
When dawn comes,
I hear the birds,
I hear the squirrels,
I hear the rabbits,
I hear the cats and dogs.
They don’t matter its only 5 am,
I shall lay in bed,
I stare at the ceiling,
I count the holes,
What more can I do.
I am not yet awake,
Not nearly tired,
More of a state of bliss,
I can’t move,
Not like there is even a reason to.
Noon comes,
I lay in bed,
I stare at the ceiling,
I count the holes,
Is my life really this boring?
I can hear the children outside,
The dogs barking,
The cats meow,
The cars drive by,
The ice cream truck passes by.
Evening comes so soon,
I lay in bed,
I stare at the ceiling,
I count the holes,
I have used a perfectly good day,
For nothing not even a sigh.
The first part of this resonates.
Even now, I have so much to do, but just this evening I put it all aside to listen to the radio and look stupidly, endlessly, at the N.Y. Times Sunday crossword, which is way too hard. (I did get some of the answers...) For, like, hours, instead of what I was supposed to be doing. (I’m not even “supposed” to be doing THIS.)
I love lying in bed, attempting to gather my wits.
I started getting antsy when your poem stopped being a celebration. What do you mean, “boring”? Was he really bored? Then why didn’t he get up and do something, then?
On the other hand I understand the syndrome utterly, having done the same. Guilt follows bliss. (Whether it should, or needs to, or not, is another story.)
Nice poem.