by Joe Engel

I turn off the lights

in this bedroom

to float like a branch.

My limbs water-log

and I slowly sink.

Cars pass outside

while drivers

glide along the black

channels of asphalt,

thoughts ushered

from point A, to point B,

hurried to where

they can uncage

the poor treatment

they received at work that day;

speak.

I have the sound 

of mattress springs

coaching me 

as I hunt sleep

and drivers pass unaware

I’m here, my own thoughts

bouncing like screen savers.

Me, one of a billion,  

barely discerning

the difference 

between a vehicle

passing and the breeze.