K.G. Newman

Insatiable men have wired dreams,
so there’s no rest to sleep.
They shuffle with calloused feet
without opening their eyes,
or they lean against the kitchen’s
cold sliding door, searching
for their fondest memories.

My nights, frequented by
a passive-aggressive man
in a tipping hat, are burdened
with woke moments: waking,
cracking every finger, toe and
vertebrae, wandering astray
through hallways while worrying
about the world’s largest organism,
a massive root system in California
dying all at once.

No worries. It was a desert throat
that I needed to solve, but first,
I listened for solutions in the walls:
She’s laughing over dinner while
men in tipping hats elbow past me
on their way to the sink.

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