Internal Combustion

In the middle of the night, starved for sleep,
I answer the phone (after counting sheep),
and I hear, “What are you up to?” cliche
of a phrase not well received at this hour.
I do not know this voice, so I shiver
as anger wells, my stomach churns, sour
reflux making its way to burn my throat.
I hang up, injured by this annoyance
yanking me from REM*sleep, my old goat
gotten like a trapped muskrat; I then glance
throughout the dark pitted by lights of red,
and from the floor on which I lie, I ride
muscles in my back to spasm, my head
a throb of inner pain like knives inside.
I’m smoke and fire looking for some rain;
My heart is pounding like a roofer’s crew.
It’s suicide since I’m the one who’s slain,
so problematic—look what I can do!
I am no back of duck where there is down
to let the issues piquing me slide off.
Right now I am the snarl of traffic town;
in permanence I do much more than scoff.
My inner anger caused good health to flee:
the bright lights of emergency I see.


24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
10-8-19

*REM…rapid eye movement, a stage of sleep.