The insomniac reads

and smokes pot

till his eyes bleed.

Shoe salesman by day,

Waiter by night,

But there’s a third time

that exists for him, beyond the night…

in the hours of the am

radio playing rock songs from the sixties

the smoke of his addiction

escaping through the crack

under his door

And his light not turning off

till the sun hits his floor.

I hear it all in the next room over

The insomniac,

a man so alive he’s killing himself to survive.