INSOMNIA

She sips her black tar fizz

Remembering

Batik, macramé, totems,

A beaver upon a plinth.

As sturdy and useful

As a shorthorn bull

She prefers to reside

In her head and wonder,

Who will thwart the meteorites,

Who will save the future?

Rain pelts the window,

Mothra softly dying

To reach lamplight,

To deliver sleep.