By day it’s exercised to death; a tongue wagged
for all it’s worth like the tail of a restless dog.
By night it guards your side of the bed, chews
bones of your thoughts, barks staccato snores.
Through wafer-thin sheets of sleep come
threats that turn pitch-black bedroom air blue.
On nights like these I lie floored, victim
to volleys of punched words; that might be funny –
if they weren’t so near the knuckle.
Paul Waring is a retired clinical psychologist who once designed menswear and was a singer/songwriter in several Liverpool bands. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming at Clear Poetry, Prole, Eunoia Review, The Open Mouse, Amaryllis, The Lampeter Review, Scrittura Magazine, Anapest, Reach Poetry, Rat’s Ass Review, Foxglove Journal and many others. His blog is https://waringwords.wordpress.com.
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