The Sane One

by James Valvis

Another night: no sleep.
He sits restless in his bed,
cursing away the hours.
He read somewhere,
maybe in a magazine,
or some bromidic novel,
when you can’t sleep
you should take time
to listen, close your eyes,
hear whatever it is
the world wants to say
so much it keeps you awake.
Why not? He shuts his lids,
hears nothing but clock,
hum that haunts his wall.
No revelation, no insight.
He tries once again,
decides there’s cars also,
late night traffic that’ll turn
into the morning rush hour
he will soon be joining.
Nothing else. Once more
he tries, but this time nothing.
He supposes his heartbeat
is down there somewhere,
but he can’t hear it, nor
the voice of his dead father,
the weeping of his mother.
Bah, after a few minutes
he gives up the project.
All that happy horseshit
is for loafers and layabouts,
religious nuts, poets,
weirdos who hear voices,
kooks who howl at the moon,
he thinks, then turns over,
reaches for the Xanax,
and a shot to wash it down.