I keep almost finished books
by my bed. Procrastination
may kill me, but in the end
I could have extra time to read.
In the night air,
planes chrrr overhead,
trains couple,
trucks shift
on the interstate.
Dreams take me places
without a sound.
Late night guests
chatter softly in my ear
hoping I’m listening.
This poem is written
in spite of them.
not minding either of us
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