Insomnia


He snores -- the understated
snorts and puffs and pops

from deep within his throat
percussion to the overture 

whistling between his chipped
front tooth and lazy tongue.

The clock keeps him awake,
so its luminescent blinks

are turned away, 
casting in cold, reptilian green

a pair of eyeglasses,
a half-full glass of water, 

pens, a watch, old paperbacks, 
their shadows interlaced

like scales along the facing wall.
She wonders about hours

and their fickle flexibility,
reaching over him 

only to see her stretching finger tips
push the slick

hard-plastic box further away. 
The shadows shift,

their calm activity mocking her
as she lies back, thinking of morning,

fat and laughing at its own
well-rested certainty.


Ali Fischer