Monday, July 17, 2017


That I was stiff from sleeping in my chair
Was Daniel Defoe's fault; his account of
Had not kept me awake. My soul, restless,
Was typing clumsily at the computer, its lips tight.
Frankly, I am rather scared of it these days
Though not because of its torn ear or missing eye --
The predictable results of age and the life it lives.
When it returned from its long absence
It wrapped itself in all it was wearing --
A rough-woven blanket -- and slept for three days
When it woke, it didn't know me or itself
And scoffed at the notion that a soul
Could sleep, could talk, could bide its time
Until the moment for escape came round again.

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