My Mind Flies at Night
Sometimes when I should be asleep
I see my mind flying around the room
Like one of those buck-fifty balsa airplanes.
It loops and barrel rolls, my runaway brain,
Propelled by a rubber band, unwinding
At greatest speed the bound-up, wound-up
Anxieties of today and tomorrow.
My airplane-mind careens off a lamp,
Off the closet door, off the warm robe
I hastily hung there on the last cold night.
It wobbles, unsure and uneager for flight,
Gets batted down by a ceiling fan blade.
It crash-lands into the open hangar of my head
Finally at rest on the now-soft pillow.
Everything can be a poem. Even a sleepless night.