I can hear the water clock.
The liquid metronome of a
dripping faucet. A distinct sound
muffled into silence during the
day of sounds.
On the ceiling, the passing reflections of
headlights from passing cars below
crawls over the cracked plaster. A blinking
neon pulses across the street, matching
the faucet drips and then quickly falls
out of sync.
Lying there in a salad of tossed sheets
sleep has abandoned me again,
unlike others thanklessly receiving
their gift.
…..a rising sun crosses over my eyes,
awakening me. Sleep once more
had entered between the drips, as it
always does.
Roger Singer 