I’ve not been sleeping.
Willing myself to remain in situ, hostage to the factory bell
only confirms that the hours I have are a conceit
of schedules, a yoke I swore I would escape when I prayed to less
flexible gods.

Playing a woman of leisure with no money
isn’t the role I coveted, but, apparently,
it’s the one for which I’ll receive a lifetime achievement award.

I look for phrases to occupy my hands – anything to keep me from
getting up and down every minute a noun shakes itself from my late night promises.

I wade into projects of little urgency,
the completion of which tires me just enough to toss
book and turn off screen.

Tell Melatonin my name.
I have flames to subdue.