Pokie Poem Four in the morning, liver hour break, the gallstones feel radioactive, ache, not enough for a complete meltdown, but sore enough, to push me around some bad news dream— I jolt awake, mid-scene. Probing dark, for the kitchen light, I sit idly on toilet, sleep-sight thumbing food magazines, Vogue, then stand there, transfixed by the stove, contemplating a snack, or forgotten name, saucepan of water on the flame, the cracked cup, the teaspoon tool, the sugar, milk, tea-bag ritual. Still too nightmare-wired to sleep, so over to the bookcase, a blank stare sweep, scanning titles, …
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