Visions of skunks dance through her head
Lovely Lovely Lovely
She counts them instead of sheep
To fall asleep
These days
But sleep's a swollen river as of late and on
The other side lays another day of work
She pumps oil into cars and money out of customers
And both rot her soul in equal measure
Burnout's a 120-ton press coming down
But she hasn't worked that field in years and she's misaligned in the mold
When it finally hits she'll get tossed to scrap
But until then
Lay her on this raft of matress pads and let a stadium blanket be her sails
Hard to keep awake with the wear and tear but she's set an eye on finishing this.
Oh to put hands to steel again
Or words
Or music
Or stones in the woods
And just make
Create
Spill unfettered this spring in her chest from which all of her art bubbles up. She may not have the time or the spoons or the money or the body or the hope or the wherewithal or the intelligence or skill to make what builds up inside her all the time but still it builds and it must somwhere. It trickles out around edges and sometimes it even tips over the spillways a little while but it shifts like tides and settles again. Never gone. Never full potential. Just what has time to forge itself.
Sleep comes close.
Closer.
Let it be a tiger that takes her in its jaws again.
Ah, but the heart wanders and the eyes tire.
Sleep may take her yet.
Hope so.
Tomorrow will be long if not.