THE GOLD RUSH PROSPERITY OF SLEEP CLOUDS

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Isolation
Does not
Stay behind
When you leave
The house
Watching you exit
Through the upstairs
Window
As the animated you
Gets lost
In
The
moist
fingerprint of
exhaled fog
Whimpering that it has
Been
Forgotten.

It is very much a
Presence in your
Well-populated
Dreams
there to remind you
That there is no one,
Even In the gold rush
prosperity of
Sleep clouds,
that you can touch
No matter how high
You hold up your arms.

It sits next to you
At work
In its very own
Ergonomic chair
As people
Sail past
Like wind swept yachts
Off the coast of
Whitsunday
Heading for
The cliquish air of
The kitchen
To share
Pringles of gossip
And fistfuls of
Hershey
Kisses.

It's in
The faces
Of commuters
That hurtle by
In the tear-streaked windows
Of stampeding subway cars

And it's in the static
Of the matrimonial bed
burrowed
deep
In the
dissonance  
That you will
Defend
To your
Dying day.

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