Insomniac

It is two fifty-eight in the morning.
the house he is currently inhabiting
is soundless.
His bedroom fails to make
even one small noise
to remind him
of civilization.

Yet, despite his blurry vision,
he can not stop examining
the glowing red numbers
next to his bed.
They examine him back,
laughing at him, mocking him.
They call him
the Insomniac.

But in the next house on the right,
two children are sleeping
in a double-mattress.
Their eyes are closed lightly,
and, hand in hand,
they are now only active
in a world of dreams.

One block away,
an elderly woman slumbers,
sitting upright in her rocking chair.
The soothing sounds of an infomercial
keep her from waking
into her arthritic world of pain.

Somewhere across town,
A cat is napping
on the edge
of some woman's bed.

Deep in the city,
a homeless man is using
an empty pizza box
as his pillow.

Yet the Insomniac is not following
the actions of his fellow peers.
All he can do
is stare, maddeningly, at those numbers:
haunting him every night.

Until, in a fit of desperation,
he grasps the alarm clock's cord
and rips it from the wall.
The numbers slowly die away,
until all that is left
is a square, black mass
on his night table.

But still, the Insomniac
can not sleep.


~J.V.Harker~
~Saturday 11 July 2009~
~3:15 a.m.~