plaster.

I don't sleep well.

It's the textured plaster
that stares at me -
from its superior vantage point -
for hours in a non-concilliatory tone.

It's all I can do, sometimes,
not to rail at it;
run around my bed in some kind of
psychotic rain dance
just to make it stop.

So I lay, resigned
while tens of thousands of
little dots of spackle
loom, suspect of my character.

They thumb their noses at me.

And I don't sleep well.

plaster. by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.