Turning out the bedside lamp
is an act to whose eventual necessity I surrender
with ever increasing reluctance,
delaying it by reading beyond my limit
of concentration on an article or a story,
taking an extra wine-glass of Dry Sack sherry, placing
the sleeping capsule where I can locate it easily
in the dark, should the preliminary tablet of Valium not suffice,
Because, you see, at sixty-five
abdicating your consciousness to sleep
involves, usually, a touch of nervous apprehension
that it may not ever revive. However
I sometimes suspect that there’s
a certain luxury submerged in this: a touch of
concealed fascination in the surrender as well . . .