sliding along <br />before vanishing <br />they keep <br />the lights on <br />through the night <br />I slip by <br />like a whisp <br />of toner dust <br />eluding dreams, <br />rasping inhalation, <br />hypnagogic flecks <br />disperse, <br />I lie waiting <br />for the 2 a.m. foghorn, <br />a cargo ship entering <br />Sydney harbour. <br />barring sleep <br />for night’s duration <br />television sound <br />or dvds <br />droning on <br />til early light <br />pinching through <br />the wooden slats <br />outlines the furniture. <br />on the top floor <br />a baby wakes <br />and wails for morning. <br />my scurf and scraps <br />and scattered nerves <br />begin their daily cycle, <br />two packed buses <br />to and through <br />the indifferent city <br />to work where <br />nothing makes sense <br />on the databases, <br />released by flexitime <br />from a short routine, <br />late afternoons <br />in the cinema’s womb <br />dozing through <br />jarhead <br />casanova <br />capote <br />syriana <br />transamerica<br /><br />Pam Brown<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flecks/
