It’s five in the morning, I should be alone,

the only one up in this house,

as I finish what I started twenty-four hours ago,

this poetry marathon, a sleepless creative

hell of my own making, only because I have

to work in two hours and then fry myself on

a soccer field after that, ah but sleep.

She’s just around the turned corner of the morning.

But who do I hear creaking the floorboards above me?

It’s she who sometimes doesn’t sleep at night.

The insomnia came after the concussion, that kick

in the head just over one year ago.

I saw her asleep at eight, while I was on poem fourteen.

I’m not surprised to hear her stomp, stomp, pull open

a drawer, stomp, stomp, and plop into her squeaky bed.

I had forgotten how quiet the night was in my room

when she was away at college up north playing soccer.

But at this hour, this sacred sleep hour when no one

arises or goes to bed, I lay in my bed, IPad propped on

my naked belly, the screen’s light, casting a shadow on

the ceiling while the fan blows white noise about me,

and struggle through the last “poem” of this marathon,

the final, number twenty-four, for which I am thankful.