When Sleep Won't Come

How much responsibility
to take for this: the hands
running fingers through the hair,

the words swallowed and regurgitated,
the split second the fluorescent light
in the office decides to blink on

just when the tears start, the way the words
stop, a serendipitous dam blocking
their passage? I do not know.

I do not know what responsibility I own.

The eyes look upward and then to me
as if to say This is the pregnant pause
or the dénouement, the aside—

stage left--the moment the audience
grimaces in their seats, ready for comedic
relief, the time I need to cut my losses and run.

And my eyes can only beg forgiveness
for the silliness of preparation for which
there is no precedence, the absurd

way the listener knows there is no art
for listening that makes much sense.