I’ll not read poetry at bedtime anymore —
those wild words gang up,
go roaming in my head,
jump synapses, gathering speed,
picking up more of their kind,
bringing little phrases
to the threshold of my sleep
like proud cats leaving
mice on a doorstep.
Some I shoo away,
but others will not let me rest
till they finally shake me awake,
and with pen scratching sleepily
on the back of a store receipt,
I quickly let them out.
— Laura Lomax
