On Sleep

I try not to hear things at night, but
things try much harder to be heard.
The grandfather, the clock,
bellowing every quarter-hour;
his many offspring ticking
praise and condemnation to me,
tocking out their quarrels:
they never can percuss a united front;
the heater, rumbling in the
dungeon like a discontent dragon;
automobiles-
electricity-
all too shy to whisper during the day,
but reliably willing to shout at night.


My refrigerator is an insomniac. At least, a restless sleeper. It rouses and grumbles, stretches and yawns its way through the night. Each time, my grandmother rises and checks on it.