Sleep
T.R. Horacek

In the seventh hour of a twelve-hour surgery
I wake from some dispiriting dream.
I am mid-stroke in a thoracotomy
on a wiry, fortyish Caucasian male.
Thankfully, I've not botched the job.
But to think I might have gives me pause.

~

I am driving home on Lions Gate bridge
at an hour when streets are empty, mostly.
The radio airs a finance program
where two men discuss interest rates.
At one point I nearly fall asleep.
But I manage to wake up just in time.

~

I'm walking down a tree-lined avenue
some ten blocks off from where I live.
Throbbing music from a party ahead
lulls me into restless sleep.
As I pass, I'm barraged with beer cans.
But I don't think even one of them hits me.

~

At the dining room table J. is sleeping,
a magazine spread beneath her cheek.
Through the curtains a diffuse light
illumines her hair, the magazine.
In a margin she's written: I miss you, honey.
But I am old, too old for anything but sleep.

© T.R. Horacek