The days get you dizzy
thought drunk on your own sweat.
It wears off into a dulling crash
when the sun goes down.
Those Southern summer nights
are Styron bleak and Faulkner fierce.
Even the wind and rain
are accented with a sepulchral drawl
that harasses your windows and roof.
Even with the AC, iced tea, and RC Cola
you want to die three times
in three different ways by morning.
Fate mocks you,
but not for sleeping alone;
It's far worse--
you're awake and your dog is beside you
in your stripped bed at 5 am
he's keeping you pushed close to the edge,
but you're too nice to wake him,
and you wish you could quiet
the obnoxious crickets and boisterous birds
giving you that sober, sobering headache,
but you know that if you slept,
your dreams would be nightmares,
so you greet the ragged dawn,
that bright collage of torn construction paper
with something like enthusiasm.
You know you'll doze off around noon
after the dogs wakes,
and you down a couple of aspirin
as if you need another bitter pill.