Insomnia

Like the title says.

Twenty-four olives swim in the jar,
fat bulbs with pimentos, cradled by juice.
Three paper-robed sticks of ivory butter,
a punch pitcher in a cold sweat.
The bulb flickers feebly,
chiding with flutters
to choose
or to slink back to bed.

I tug my pajamas. I sit like the Buddha.
The porch light is golden-grey;
moths flirt with my hair.

My gut puckers, restless;
I stiffen but still wander.
I comb through words that weigh me down
to sink me into sleep.
Adipose, adipose,
Mr. Henry Kissinger.
Teletubby, Wonder Woman,
brown oat bread.

Twenty-three olives swim in the jar.
I graze and drum the dusty floor.
These lamps see that I’m criminal.
Stale-mouthed I hoard the lonely hours.
White light advances on my walls,
blending day and day.