Sick poetry

Not much emerges
wordwise
when the body says, “sleep.”

A mumble, an exhalation.

“Here I am,” my shoulder blades say
as they press into the pillow,
“why would you do anything now
but
sink
in?”

My neck curves backwards,
nestles.
My eyelids drop
like one of those dolls

who can’t lie down

without falling asleep.

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“Ladies & Gentlemen!” Shouts the announcer,

“Be on the edge of your seats!” He says.

“You may not be prepared for what you are about to witness:”

The crowd leans in.

“The one and only
Ms. Jacket
will now perform

the daring feat

of getting out of bed

in search of food.”

Alice looked out of her hiding place
in the rose tree.

“Roses don’t grow on trees,”
she remembered. “Still, it’s a nice view.”

“Alice, wake up,” says her sister. “You’re going to be late.”

As she stumbles out the door into blind sunshine

sister calls after,

“Don’t forget to pick your lunch money
from the money tree.”

Money doesn’t grow on trees, either, Alice thinks.

The bus arrives.

She will wake between green flannel

ankles aching slightly

craving an apple

just not the poisoned kind

because who knows

what is real

anymore?

Some risks are worthwhile.

Kisses for instance.

This poem might be one of them.

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