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,
Ensconced 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?"