The Insomniac's City
and where the step from road to pavement mirror the staircase, carpeted,
the roundabouts, abandoned at night, are those stools by his kitchen island –
and how the park, grassy clumps covered in silent dew, reflects his garden patch in concrete,
the flashing sign of an underground, rumbling, sparks similarly to that faulty living room bulb –
and within the litter blowing in midnight sighs, its his clothing, bedding, tossed in sleepless irritation,
in the hissing of a pipe, a cool water drip onto hot metal, he hears the plop of a tap left unfixed –
and when shop keepers open their shutters, as the market stalls stretch and yawn,
he feels his own eyelids droop, rusted and propped apart with knuts and bolts for the day to come
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