The character whose sleep is messed up,
who is awakened by the least misstep
in a dream and hobbles to the stairwell to smoke,
can’t quit however hard tried,
smoking on the landing on an empty stomach
does give consolation
as well as thoughts not otherwise thought,
leading upward and downward like the stripes we call stairs
with light bulbs so yellow
one can’t tell whether the walls are beige or white,
never seen in plain day, who could be you
except that it may be me, dissolves instant coffee
in hot tap water in a pre-cracked cup, melts therein with sugar
all secondary considerations regarding awakening
his company of companions still
dormant, and who must slink quietly in the dark,
make an effort to breathe softly,
think peaceable thoughts lest an abrupt sound erupt,
rather glare at the obtruding moon for a time,
then back to the stairwell with your coffee,
with my cigarettes, to think some more thoughts
not otherwise thought,
the character whose sleep is all messed up.