The clock in our bedroom says 2:17 in the morning.
I want to be sleeping, except I am thinking about
What I should serve at our dinner party next Friday.
Do we remain in the market, or get the hell out.
Whether the grandchildren know not to go with a stranger.
Whether I ought to consider replacing my knees.
If it is actually true that my lab tests are normal,
Or is nobody telling me I have a fatal disease.
And why I am thinking such thoughts at what the clock now says is 3:38 in the morning,
When I ought to be sleeping, except I can’t sleep on my stomach,
And also can’t sleep on my left side or right side or back
Because I am wondering if I have turned off the oven.
When to expect the next terrorist attack.
Whether we now have too much or too little insurance.
What can be done about my expanding behind.
Why other mothers get calls from their sons every Sunday.
Whether, if given the choice, to choose deaf over blind.
And how come I’m asking these questions at what my clock now says is 4:26 in the morning,
When I need to be sleeping, except I am prompted to ponder
The Briefness of Life. And Eternity. Also, The Void.
Whether my hair can get by one more week without color.
How to prevent polar bears from being destroyed.
I list all the presidents up to John Quincy Adams.
I add up the trips that I’ve made to the bathroom tonight.
I try to retrieve the name of my orthopedist,
The capital of Wyoming, the French word for “right.”
I tally the losses sustained by my brain and my body,
Though none by either my weight or my appetite
Or by the number of things that still remain to be worried about
When the clock in our bedroom says time to get up in the morning.