Catherine Chandler: Insomnia

I wandered wakeful as a fox
amidst the chant of whip-poor-wills,
when I recalled a little box
of suvorexant sleeping pills
between the TUMS and 3D Crest
inside my bathroom medicine chest.

Round as the alabaster moon
that in its livid fullness glares
above the darkened land in June,
the pastilles, blister-packed in pairs,
announced a night of restful sleep
for those fed up with counting sheep.

Both heretofore and hitherto
I’d swallowed sky-blue Sominex
and Ambien of rosy hue;
but they’d had adverse side-effects.
So now, without a second thought,
I, poet-cum-oneironaut,

when flat upon my bed I lie,
embraced by Erebus and Nyx,
and don’t (despite how hard I try)
fall fast sleep, can get my fix –
sans ferment and sans fireworks –
from this new remedy of Merck’s.