Stop in the Name of Sleep before I Get My Gun
a drowsy numbness pains
John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale”
My head throbs, and dyspepsia dis-mays
my corporal frame, as though I’d drunk
twelve high-gravity IPAs
and into a drunken snoring stupor had sunk.
O, give that leaf blower a rest,
neighbor, as a favor. It’s not yet eight
this balmy May morning, and over there a nest
of nightingales rests. Please shut up, okay?