A friend showed me a draft of her poem entitled ‘insomnia’. So the word was in my head. Mine is a very different beast (as indeed no doubt are the things which keep us from our slumber). I didn’t intend writing it, but when the images of the ‘same sweet ghosts’ arrived & hung around, as it were, my path was trod.

*****

insomnia

well past the witching hour —
cold air — crackles the dogsnores
— magnifies the pastacrunching
mouse in a kitchen cupboard —
(who last night i tried to catch
obviously without success) —
chills the toes on my right foot
— it’s always colder than the left
even under the doona — no idea why
— must resist sleep at all costs —
& all the while — the same
sweet ghosts that usually haunt
these long alonely hours of
pretending i don’t wish to dream
float above our heads — trying
to interest me in a game of
— remember this ? —

*****