When Sleep Comes to Call

When Sleep comes to call, I am alone In a dark room whose walls bear no evidence Of the light green I know them to be. Illuminated in the dull glow of the alarm clock Is a small, portable radio on a windowsill, Its bent antenna like that of an alien, Its jet-black speaker void of sound. All is still. When Sleep comes to call, The closet door is open And pieces of old costumes – A flowered silk scarf, An elegant masquerade mask on a simple wooden stick, A crumpled dusty witch’s hat from Halloweens long past – Tip-toe out, One by one, And dance beneath the scattered ceiling stars in a circle, Celebrating something I do not know, Performing arcane rituals in which I cannot partake. Like other occupants of the night may be designated drivers, So I am the designated watcher, Passive, inert. When Sleep comes to call, She opens the door softly, And the first part of her to enter the room Is her hand, Dark and slender like the rest of her. She steps in lightly in bare feet, Her deep black dress matching the ones of her closely braided hair, And closes the door behind her to a crack, Pressing it back gently when it threatens to swing open again, And lingering for a moment so that it doesn’t. When Sleep comes to call, She finds me lying on my back With my arms crossed over my chest like a mummy, A still body but still warm Beneath two sets of stars. Not a single breeze disturbs the dry desert of a carpet As she crosses the room To gently close my eyes With fingers smooth and dry like papyrus. She breathes deeply, And suddenly, we are in sync, The combined flow of our air Rippling the peace flags about our heads, Slowly, slowly, Sinking into the embrace of the night. It is now 6:29 am, A time that only the most generous Would call the world of pale grey skies And frost outside the window “Morning”. I am wandering the corridors of a pharaoh’s tomb Whose walls are covered with mysterious hieroglyphs Shining as though they were painted just yesterday And as I poke my head quizzically around a corner Quiet music drifts into my ears, Becoming more and more persistent, And in an instant, I float upwards to a suddenly solid bed And the realization that it is the alarm clock. I open my eyes. The closet door is closed And no one is around. The plastered on stars blend into ceiling. But the alarm is still on its crescendo, So I hit the circular button, Peel the blankets off tenderly and painfully, Like bandages, And head off to start a new day.