Sonnet for Somniacs

Surely this is not jet lag.
I stare suspiciously at my unpacked bag.
It stares back at me, its one lock-eye steely.
Stupid little carry-on wheely.
Surely this is not middle age.
I wearily turn another page.
Reading at 4am just means I’m nerdy.
And besides, this book is so wordy.
Surely this is not anxiety.
That’s not a condition in which I would be.
Everyone has ailing parents, kids alone,
And I’m big boned, not osteo-prone.
Look at me: successful, happy, fat.
Sleep? It really isn’t all that!


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