Dreamless

The in and out, the swinging door

The turnstile when he hoped for more

Some clippings from the daily news

Dried ink on the soles of his shoes

Writing a while his mind goes blank

He has the dreamless night to thank

The up and down of restless sleep

The same tea bag he used to steep

To stay awake at his table

Attempting to but unable

He taps his foot soothing himself

He puts his pen back on the shelf

And drags his body up the stairs

The poorly written story tears

Tossing it in the kitchen pail.

His self-respect grows thin and frail

Tomorrow he must make that call

Not that he never worked at all.