Foot In Hand

As we’ve aged (tried retirement), sleep-patterns have changed. I am staying up later! Sleep gravitates, ebbs less from forces that rule in a drive to work job (where one must leave home’s relative bliss for eight hours)! You do not need slave either but still, love your art as a sculptor of coiffures, a teaser of waves with their colorful highlights that speak of self-love, and your ‘chirpiness’ faint hope command with cold cash. But although we are different, love’s not estranged - I do poems, NETFLIX, your dreams float on dark webs sandman spins on the couch near my side (I’m nabob with a blood-owned heart treasure no phantom-fear sours). Ah, sleep’s kiss! Let you rest, undisturbed! I depart to past’s bed where REM sleep, I hope beckons, behaves, plays soft tune, more aged lighter peace heeds (silk touched glove). ... Lift sleep’s legs, foot in hand; dawn rekindles from ash! Brian Johnston 12th of October in 2020 Poet’s Notes: I’m twelve years older than Kimmy, a Catholic School educated boat-person emigrant who escaped Vietnam. With just a high school education, she overcame many obstacles in life! With deep emotional wounds from her culture, childhood abuse, war’s dislocation and rape, and from the loss of a son to suicide (he succumbed to bi-polar depression in his third year as a straight-A college student), so many dreams escaped her! And yet she became a successful businesswoman and empath, in my opinion! And I, (always a lucky, prosperous man with advanced degrees, an aspiring poet) love her above all others. Lucky me!