she hasn't slept well these days,
beneath a brand new duvet
she lays on her side,
and then sighs;
tosses and turns
like holy wine
inside the glass
of night

the drip,
drop of glorious
sun arrives;

then ******,
prods, over her eyes

she'll wake up,
reach for the phone

and perhaps snooze
it for ten or twenty minutes

finally awake,
she tumbles like a load
of ***** laundry
(the aftermath
of bad habits)

in the sweet,
sickly aroma
of a day to day
existence;

another morning tucked
in the back pocket
as she makes her way
to the door,

locks it

and takes the
heaviness of dreams
for granted.