In a fit balanced between wanting to sleep and the combined effects of yummy caffeine and a glass of wine with dinner, I find myself laying in bed and pounding on the keys all the day’s Moleskine scribbles. Sleep seems far away. I wish it would get here already—but wishes, like fairy dust, we sometimes reserve for the over-privileged and under-anxious.

I wrote this snippet and the poem over the last week.

***

Memories of red numbers on black plastic nametags kept me up at night. Empty coffee cups stained along its inner rim of levels gone by. Raspy voices. Story Idea: Strafed by a WWII plane.