by MW Cook

When you’re tired,
      nothing works.
When you’re tired,
      regret creeps uselessly in. Strong for stinging. Too weak for anything else.
When you’re tired,
      the mind moves to the morbid dance of the epileptic. The sole constant is the image of that bleeding billboard shouting with angry letters: “I am tired!”
When you’re rested,
      it works.
But here fatigue creeps about like a roaring leech,
      devouring. And fatigue cannot sleep in my town.
For we breed and feed the leeches by hand and select each one carefully before applying them to our heads and hearts and most sensitive places.
      How can there be any good while I breed entropy and beg it to devour me?
These leeches must be salted.
      Or I must leave their swampy lands.