has had me up these past few nights
tossing like a beanbag thrown into the numbered holes
putting on the lights, wetting my face
with a cold washcloth, scratching my hives
making pockmarks
as the liquor wears off
worrying and excited about seeing you
frightful as when I look in the mirror
after this dreaded night is through
having nightmares of black creatures and
the old homestead up in flames again
restless as a meatball that can’t stay on the plate
cooked up short and half-baked