I Don't Sleep

There are spans of hours now

that I spend awake at night

crowded out of my own mind

by decades of trouble.

If I do manage to fall asleep

I find myself at the bottom

running right out of my shoes

from the hurt and the vengeful.

I see the log chains breaking

on timber cars crossing the trestle,

and log trucks smashed like soda cans

from steam frosted, school bus windows.

I hear the sobbing curses 

of the tired and emotional

ranting behind the bedroom curtains,

growing in volumes of complaint

and libraries of bitter invective.

The night becomes an impenetrable singularity of regret

localized in my aching head

and I don't sleep.