a poem a day for a year #206

by Amy Turn Sharp


almost always when I can't find sleep
you are in my head
shouting like a shiny vandal
painting my cortex with your face
with your slick red heart juice
you are like a rolling ball on a wonky old floorboard
across my head
I pick up the ball
and throw it like a tight pant pitcher
it curves and nearly misses
the edge of slumber
the forest of deep fairytale sleep