BROKEN TILE

BROKEN TILE

When I got home that night
she was asleep in be in the dark.
I tiptoed here and there and walked
with fear for I didn’t want to wake her.
She would cry. Her tears tear my heart.
I didn’t want that, so, I didn’t bathe.
Bathing is noisy, the rush of shower head,
The splash of waterspout, the brush of sponge,
the banging of bathroom doors. She would
be awake in seconds. So, I brushed my teeth
while the tap drips with strength three times
weaker. I urinated but didn’t flush. Yet the
closing of the lid made her stir.
Come on! How long shall I sneak like a
thief in my own house? If your sleep rest
on your eyelids, and your slumber sleep
by your pinna and your dreams are just
as shallow, do you want me dead at
night to awake to life in the morning?
When she began to cry, “I want to sleep,
I can’t sleep.” I said, “I’m sorry.” “No you’re
not.” She said. And my heart broke like that
broken tile I saw on campus four hours before.
I went to bed but couldn’t sleep.
As I lay there, wakefulness walk
through my head. I turned and
moved my head, insomnia held it still.
Worry overtook me. Not sleeping is a
disease. I drank a bottle of beer an hour
before. I said, “Beer is evil, it robs one of
sleep. I shall drink it no more.”
So, I prayed for sleep as the night wore
away. It passed by and by it went.
My circadian rhythm was broken, like
a broken tile, scarring the pattern,
the intricate form of what should be
my hours of rest woven beneath
the hours of labour. I accused a
bottle of beer, the tiptoeing
of thieves, and the worries of woes.
They broke my night, and my
circadian cycle like a broken tile.