Don’t worry — I can always
prop my eyelids open a little longer
and feel them fill with sand,
all the little blood vessels breaking.
What’s a night for, anyway, if not
for staying up? I can always work late
and sleep in later, on some future date
that I kick further and further
down the road, like a can. Like a can
of something that might relieve
the thirst that I ignore, so I can
sit and continue to work. It’s really
no trouble for me to sit here,
hour after hour, like a spider
on her web, only I was not
designed for it like she was,
and some people now say there’s
such thing as sitting disease,
which can’t be remedied later
by exercise, not that that I’ve tried
recently. Recently, I’ve been working.
Just working all the time. But it really is
no trouble, how my heart hammers in my bed,
once I finally get there. Once I finally stop.