Liquid Sleep

With a wave of black coffee,
sleep is washed past the three feet of
my tongue and down through my feet.

Slowly, it drips off of my toes,
pooling at the base of my chair,
awaiting the attention of the tireless
janitor, sweeping, mopping the floors.

It’s not meant as any inconvenience,
I realize that I’m a bit messy,
a bit of a goon – as kids say-
but I haven’t known many people
to be filled with as much discretion
and quet understanding as the janitor
that cleans up my excess dreams.

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