Poetic Interlude: Sleep is a Stranger

Sleep is a stranger to me

 

We met in a bar once, sleep and me

I bought him a drink

He bought me a Turkish coffee and a little stale danish.

We laughed a lot, though I can not remember now what we actually talked about

(It was a little while ago)

I do remember the patterns in the wood of the bar, the way the old coots down at the other end were having a replay of a bitter argument that had been going on for a good forty years; something about wives and children…and loyalties there-in, absences and omissions.

I remember the smell of stale cigars and cheap whiskey, though there was no one drinking whiskey or smoking cigars that night.

And I remember the teeth of sleep, looking remarkably bright and sharp in the dim amber light, flashing easily with smiles and laughter.

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