He found that not being able to stay
asleep for more than 90 minutes at a time
was a two-edged sword. On one edge, in the fey
hours of the early day, it was so quiet that
everything began to rhyme;
an unrivaled stroke of know-it for an enervated poet.
Standing in his back door he heard crickets;
a word which spoke of spigots. There was a raccoon
at the trash can, a spittoon upon the floor.
(And in French putain means whore, bien sur!)
It was handy that Spring peepers mimicked
tessellated wing creepers, high in the skies of May.
Or was that wing walkers? The late night TV talkers
took what little mind he had away.
(It is so difficult writing a rhyming line,
unless it’s: “Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.”)
On the other, the dual-edged sword, of course,
took its toll. His mornings were full of lack.
His eyes were red; a fevered map. Still, it can be said,
when all else was one and done:
his vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.