insomniac cafe
by t. zoEy benally

it's 1AM, we have just opened our doors for business
at the insomniac cafe, square lights, squinty red or mint gel blue
the pressurized, static hum of neon tubes -- absent
not even the heartbeat cluck of a mechanical wind up clock
cool handed LED, LCD deftly push out corners, collapse
squares, change zeros into ones, twos, three minutes of not asleep

everyone at the insomniac cafe feels the burning optic nerve tug
cold fingers and toes, stuttered inhalations that refuse to fall
into teeter totter patterns, squeaky chain pendulum swing
of bright playgrounds, arc of sand kicked away, kicked away
everyone has the recent memory of escape from water torture
twisted blankets, gritty sheets, head aching from lying alone

all the tables at the insomnia cafe are 22-inches in diameter
they are all 32-inches high, and have soothed many a weary
cheek, forehead, laid upon this tranquil metal palm
most patrons sit alone, ears jaded by even lung action song
sonorous snore pudding, slow drip of drool from lax jaws, dry lips
they lean back, legs thrown out or maybe folded into X-s and T-s

insomniac cafe's ceiling is the ballroom dome of dark violet night
Orion is my favorite dancer, i run my fingers over starry nubs
of his belt, i am Artemis, intrigued by his movements, await his return
sipping warm tea, stirring already dissolved sugar, adding cream
golden pekoe, vanilla eddies swirl around a long, thin spoon
tinny clinks of silver against ceramic would cross oceans of tea

the light bulbs at the insomniac cafe are intentionally incandescent
shadows honored, unblurred, tethered to each of Thomas Edison's suns
the wood floors are polished and waxed, foot falls squeak and tap
jangled nerve feathers can be smoothed, by water from steel faucets
delivered in robust, unaerated streams, warm if goose bumps are your demon
icy cold if nausea, sticky hands, and a burning brain plague you

small corners are available, should you be released from insomnia's
sinewy talons, corners with curved velvet couches, burgundy or forest green
static free angora blankets to curl around, edged with thick satin borders
dark back bench seats of cars parked, abandoned, that you can stretch out on
malleable pillows, filled with buckwheat hulls, or yawn free down
ready for you, to relax, release and slide into sleep's tenuous embrace.