Insomnia

You know me well  strolling streets to be with people without

being with people. You ask for one dollar. One dollar.

What if I only have a twenty? Can I owe you for tonight?

Your eyes  bloodshot like mine  bags holding them up.

Johnson roamed London midnight to sunrise. Couldn’t bear

the garret  stacked in leaves of words  worked  reworked 

amanuenses oblivious to stale air  to his rambling Fleet.

My rambling State  slipping in my skin  bleak above cement.

Days disintegrate unseen  except by you grave lady  reaching for me 

singing a hymn my mother sang  When nothing else would help

love lifted me. I’m not him: I can’t take you home. But I’ll leave you

this bill & all the change in my pocket.