Photo: "A Touch of Insomnia" David Graham
Whew! No sooner do I take the wheel than a tire blows, the full moon rises, and I have to pull over at the Walt Whitman Rest Area. Bad case of the whim-whams, fantods, and heeby-jeebs, I'm afraid. But rest assured I'll make up for lost time now.
Probably in some house down the street
a television flashes and jabbers
to a sleeper slumped in her chair.
Or a saxophone solo unspools softly
in the head of a man gone into the cellar
to check on the cold furnace.
Or the dog chews his rawhide scrap
in your own dark hallway, all business.
Or your wife tosses fitfully in sleep,
murmuring nonsense to the swelling wind
rubbing its witchy branches on the roof.
And the moon, with as usual nothing
to say, keeps right on saying it.