He didn’t snore,
he talked in sleep
all the things he said made me wish
that he snored instead.
With snoring, it would be
less trouble for me.
Some nights, I wake up
with him shouting at someone
he was playing soccer with
and for the life of me
it was unimaginable of him;
he hated soccer.
On other nights, he ran his office
from his pillow, deep in sleep;
the good manager that he was.
I would get a sense
of who was running the show
it wasn’t him, really
but his boss kept him on his toe
and so chanted his boss’s name
like a life-saving mantra.
On some nights, he mumbled
poetic versions of beautiful nature
and left me dumbfounded;
he was high and dry about poetry;
to him, poetry was lame.
He seemed to live a separate life