So you talked to me while I slept,
likely giving inside odds on the mayoral election,
the lottery winner, the playoffs,
the Series and even postseason.
Great novels were doubtless written,
fear and pity aroused and released,
ancient conundrums unravelled,
your big heart unburdened, all while I slept.
What else did I miss back then?
Scented letters dropped in puddles,
phones ringing with no one on the line,
great brown parcels arriving torn and empty.
But my embryonic world so overflowed
with mesmerizing sound and light;
how could I possibly miss what was missing?
Each day consumed in breakneck paging
through the encyclopedia of experience,
with midnight raids on the reckless and forbidden,
and damned if I didn’t always get home safe,
through dopey innocence and primitive pluck.
But sleeping is wasteful in miserly middle age.
Each lead methodically pursued,
every loving sentence hoarded and recorded.
Close my eyes with so much at stake?
Say it once more. I’m listening.