Try as I might to ignore him and write,
he insists on having his way;
yelling in tones mute to the naked ear
knocking around inside my skull
randomly pressing different parts of my brain.
Then standing on my cheek
in audacious Liliputian fashion,
he reaches his hand up
to drag down my eyelids one at a time.

It’s inconvenient timing each night he comes
arriving promptly when the words
have begun to spill, my hands
writing or typing to catch them.
I’m forced to give in,
praying I’ll later recall the words coming.

Still, I relent only after I’m convinced
that if you ask me my name
I wouldn’t remember it to say.

Good night.

©2008 by Shari Lynne Smothers