STARING AT THE CEILING AT MIDNIGHT

February 25, 2020 / John Grimmett

I’m getting much too old
to count the rotations of the fan
or all the sheep
or the attempts
to listen to the soft, droll hum of the fridge
which I rely on nightly
to carry me across a sleepy river:

I realize I am a jigsaw puzzle
with a few pieces short of the full deal.
I am glued together like a favorite mug
once dropped on the back patio deck

(my fingers are too large
to reach between the wooden slats
to collect all my brokenness)

I close my eyes and wait for sleep to rescue me —
or to rescue sleep from waiting.
Semantics.

One point:
I achingly love to be awake;

And secondly:
a good poem is hard to come by these days.

God knows I’ve tried.

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