Too tired to be inspired; not enough sleep…
The downstairs neighbour in her high-heeled shoes
Kept clacking round her bedroom, and she’d keep
Turning the telly on too loud. J’accuse!
But still, she’s better than the Turk, who’d booze
And party nearly every night till four;
The loudest voice ever. Rest would refuse
The best of entreaties, retreating far.
The worst time for that to happen’s summer,
When light floods in and birds begin to cheep,
And work’s not far off. It’s the sleepless blues.
The radio played blues last night at four.
When ‘Up All Night’ ended, still counting sheep,
I felt like sleep’s detective seeking clues.
Sun 20 Jan 2008
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