Hang Loose, the Bathrobe Cinches of Destiny

like peace in the Middle East
sleep seems a remote possibility

the hospitalized dim of my bedroom
has lost all interest in color
(I know the feeling) and
shows signs of developing fog

illuminated by a laptop screen
a weak glow, folding sickly shadows
into their hiding places
among the clutter: I am awake

(though not awake in the Buddhist
sense, alas, luckless pilgrim
it’s the other kind of awake
the kind that taunts your desire
to be asleep) but wait
here comes darkness, as if to mock
my wired-wide dog-barking brain

—the idling display has timed out

sucking the tween appearance of
the room right out of my eyes
and into its greedy dark
little screen, snatching away
what my reasonless eyes had
set their sights upon

my bathrobe hanging from a hook
on the wall by the closet, with its
long flannel waist-cinch dangling
from a couple of droopy side loops
like hanged men, or drape cords
(innocent, in other words)

side by side, hanging as they are
loose, no orders to follow, fretless
the robe doors open to the night, and
the destiny of a naked, sleepless
man is his alone to ponder
as they now slumber

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