Insomnia

​Whether Sisyphus laid down the round rock
at end of day is unknown. The Greek tale
fails to tell us of nocturnal travail
on that hill. Wounds on the shoulder don’t shock
us and we’re familiar with heavy weights
that threaten to crush, should we stumble, trip
on a son’s diagnosis, a pink slip
or other unforeseen abyss the fates
have failed to warn us of. But come the night?
When darkness should silence it all with sleep?
Anxiety’s bitter tunes repeat, keep
us up. The boulder comes in, not quite
on key, scraping. As if it could sing.
As if it were made from tendon. Or string.

First published in Mezzo Cammin 2015