No Better Cure for Insomnia by Arlene Ang
At three a.m. a copy of Better Homes
flutters from the floor, crackles
my chances for redemption: bathroom tap
drips soulfully into the drain,
shower curtain dries with scum,
ecru washer lolls out bloated tongue
of clothes, cacti unloose thorns
from lack of water. If I get up
I can deliver the house from ruin,
save face when inviting friends for lunch.
Get a move on. We haven’t got all night.
Workday can be put off, illness feigned.
Everyone’s got to live sometime.
The ceiling fan runs in circles
while the empty side of bed invites
with virgin sheets, goosedown pillow.
I try to resist. Double beds
are only for singles. One leg
immediately goes to sleep. Outside
someone flushes the toilet. Silence.