Sleep Pleas

In trying to attain the perfect sleep,
certain pillows with down feathers
cooled my head and molded my
neck, like a masseur’s adroit
hands, and mattresses made
mechanical, with their raising
and lowering, came with number
settings insomuch that firmness could
be set to border shoulders hard and
fast, or downy soft and delicate
as if kid gloves treatment were
second nature. 

And even water was promise of dreamland
euphoria, a sleep sans burden of restlessness,
of mixed pressure points extant, an
uncomely, “going to sleep” of arms
and hands from sleeping bent, a
nightclub side body part extorted
like a sap by strong-armed Don muscle.
Where is the sympathy? The symphony?
The repose, the doze, that REM that
knows not of Sleepus Interuptus,
that coma slumber snore?
Mattresses as such, fine contrivances
shaped by men in white coats dropping
bowling balls at one end while red
wine in tall glasses inhabit the
other...ah, no wine is spilled,
yet I am not a bowling ball;
no, I am bone and flesh and nerves
and knots hoping for launch into 
Earth orbit freefall sleep. 

So let me fall to deepest, sweetest sleep,
contented, glad, relaxed; oppose the dark
ages inquisition, bowed queen bed, box
springs taxed by time, by clan, in-laws
happy to amuse by blissful free-for-all
dilly dally.  Allow me pleasant dreams.
Yet, wouldn’t you know it?  The
living room floor works best.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
4-18-16