So tired that my thoughts are fuzzy
Make fleeting sense inside
But sound like non-sequiturs once on stage.
Sat beside a clunking washing machine
Clinging to rhythm and reason. Cold tea grasped,
Can’t see further than the next sixty seconds
Beyond that, thick white fog.
Worse when you count on a helping hand,
Which, when withdrawn, or weak, or slapping
Leaves you all alone and sick-
-headed with dizziness.
A night’s sleep, a night’s sleep,
And will the tunnel then be wider?
Because it is closing in on all sides, now
And the water keeps on rising.
Like being drunk.
Leaden limbs and heavy lids:
Swimming head, thumping temples.
Like being drunk,
But without the silliness before it
Forgot and remembered teasingly (hot tea in hand)
A normal morning after.