Half Awake

Half Awake

I’ve rocked my way to something like

belief the way a mother gently rocks

her child till its existential screams 

are soothed, but recently it seems

as though a pebble’s wedged itself

beneath the rocker blades. In sifting

through the ripples of inconstancy, 

I've found and pocketed a very scanty

number of the diamond type, but one

I have uncovered is that people tend

to be a little grumpy when you wake

them up abruptly with a cover-yank,

and here I find I’m no exception to

the rule. I do not want, per say, to go

on sleeping through the afternoon,

but when the cold alternative is waking

up to find to a shaky house that wants

some serious repair, a simple afternoon 

siesta seems a little less contemptuous. 

The problem here is I'm exhausted

for a sleep I love to criticize in those

who sleep, a rest I need but also overuse—

not baby or adult, I guess I am the toddler

who resists his lids to crabbily soldier on.