I have some nights of sleep leftover

From the times when walls closed in on me

And sleep being the bitch it is jumped right out of my eyes.

I carry these nights in my pockets, turning them around like loose change

They don’t make the same noises

But they feel like a cat’s underbelly.

I take them out sometimes

Look at them with paranoid intensity

And put them back in my pocket with chagrin

And a little bit of possessive energy

I whistle to myself

And think however it is,

That bitch is mine.