It’s empty to wish you sweet dreams.
Your brain finds a playground crumbling,
the potholes enough to break your ankles.
It’s hard to watch your step
when you’re chased in your sleep.
But I can wish you a hot drink
before bed. Or better, I can
make you one. I don’t know how
you fuck up camomile tea, but
this one thing I can save you from.
I can cross my fingers in the morning
that I’ll find the kettle cold and empty.
That today I’ll wake you up. That last
night you shook off the first nightmare.
Then the second. And then the third.
That you did your progressive muscle
relaxation woo-woo shit and each time
went back to snatch some rest. That you
are not too surprised to wake up and find
your ankles still in full working order.