Sleep is elusive, and will probably
strike when least expected – or welcome.
It’s past ten o’clock at night, and only civil twilight.
The red tint still touches the sky.
Speakers buzz, unused. Turn them off.
Sore arms already, how will I keep this up?
Drinking water by the litre, still dry and queazy.
Bodily needs clamour; an aesthete I am not.
There should have been a fête today,
but no-one came, rain prevented play.
The timer ticks at double speed,
multiplying the seconds.
So much poetry has me
Thinking in rhythm.
Hope this is coming out OK,
I’m not looking at the screen.
Touch tells me when fingers are correctly positioned.
Index fingers swirl in little circles, seeking confirmation,
assurance that my words will be readable.
Typos slink in, like neighbours’ cats,
making themselves at home,
scratching at my spelling,
shedding on my prosody.
Eyes averted, typing blind.
Engrossed in the view from my window.
Night sky so clear, curtains must be
open, and the lights low.
The edit consisted mostly of deleting excess words, trimming phrases and placing the line-breaks. An interesting exercise, and an indication of how nine hours of poetry has affected my thinking.