Wandering between the wrinkles
      in the sheets
My mind chews
      on the tattered rags of stress.

Vagabond, furtive, recalcitrant;
      Sleep is a prey to be hunted.

Time is unsympathetic,
      Intellectual and yawning,
Ensconsed in the smug repose
      of easy victory.
                                        
Twisted under rumpled covers,
      a pillow becomes
A battle ground; bruised and cratered
      with the aftermath
      of violence.

Mercenaries with advertisements
      of surefire solutions
Shamelessly hawk their wares:
      "Medicines; elixirs; late night tv."
      All are bunk.

Each night is an adventure
      with waterlogged boots
      and a missing map.

Sleep, however,
      is a tramp with no gumption.
Huddled at a cold fire,
      Weary; slurring his words,
      He confesses defeat,

Tempered by a parting shot
      hurled with consummate brass.
        
"What took you so long?"