Tide of Sleep

moody, the floor skitters

high on caffeine

tabletops shake tonight

dust prints in the dried polish

of future fossils

scrapes of finger writings

- lack of paper, absence of pen –

taurine-induced  doubts

wander the alleys

boss looks over our shoulders

disappears for the night

machines seem to bellow

sometimes whisper

sometimes an hour passes unnoticed

sometimes the hand never moves

it’s 3am

then it’s 2 again

4am suddenly looms

the lull and the tide

of enforced insomnia

pulling and pushing the fulcrum

of rationale

sometimes her face is in the dust,

sometimes there isn’t even a platform

for this lust.