Insomnia Reconstructed Poem by Patti Masterman

Insomnia reminds us of how the world gets demolished
And the too-sharp corners rounded off
During the time we normally would be sleeping.

At 12 a.m, we hear the sick baby screaming
But by 2, the sound is growing weaker;
And there are only mewling noises after that;
While It's mother hopes that perhaps sleep is coming finally.

At 2 a.m, the serial killer has grown tired
Of toying with his latest catch
And he finishes them off then, and falls asleep soundly
To his favorite lullaby, the drip-dropping
Of the last escaping blood,
Steaming on it's way down to the cold basement floor.

By 3 a.m. the neighborhood cats have paired off
For their square dancing routines
And have gone off to nap for a few minutes
Before continuing the rehearsals.

And in the hospital, the one barely clinging
To the naked, brazen edges of life
Begins to give it up;
Agonal breathing starts,
And the survivors give a start
And wake up again, wide-eyed again in their torture chairs.

By 4 a.m.
The baby has turned blue; but the mother has now fallen asleep
Rigor mortis has begun to set in, on the killers latest victim
The cats are at it again
And the relatives are hugging one another
In the hospital corridor;
Relieved their long vigil has come to a conclusion.

By 5 a.m.
The hearse drivers are working out their routes all over town
The serial killer is snoring and dreaming of his next victim's cries.
And the dog is scratching at the hands of the mother;
She gives a start, awakens and looks over at the infant
And then begins to scream.

The cats begin to return to their respective territories
After having bricks thrown at them repeatedly through the night.

The world has been demolished during the dark hours,
And remade again during the daylight,
By the single breadth of one tear, on one trembling eyelash hair
Repeated over and over, and multiplied by billions of times.

And every night it is deconstructed
And every dawn the rebuilding starts.
And anyone who questions the economy of this
Is instantly buried, under the awful weight of the implication itself.