We can’t sleep, either of us, both awake
from heat and the day’s business, each too tired
for settling down to brief oblivion.
Or do we goad each other on, both fired
with restless life, its possibilities?
My buzzing mind’s a danger, signalling
a duel to his swatted death, while his
takes me to Psycho’s final scene, each wing
in horrid close-up. So we share this room.
Despite the window open to the night,
no cooling air, no ripple of a breeze.
If I could pray I’d pray that he’d take flight
and find some respite. Meanwhile we both face
these crawling minutes, each at our own pace.