Letting the Cat Out of the Bag

Once I saw this optional idea on Poetry Thursday, I've heard nothing but cliches all week. They're taking over! Here's my interpretation of a cliche very dear to me, the idea of calling sleep 40 winks. If only it were that easy. (I must add that I'm slightly thankful for my insomnia this week, because I don't know when I would have found the time to write otherwise.)

40 Winks

Welcome to paradise, he said to me,
as I stamped my feet in the cold. No shit,
I muttered underneath my breath,
wondering what we really meant.

I watched the digital numbers on the gas pump
accumulate, illuminate, as I waited to go home.

Ten hours later, warm at home, lying
in bed, I am still wondering, trying
to catch 40 winks,
one at a time. They flutter

through my finger tips on eyelash
soft wings. I count them,
like sheep, mouthing the numbers in the dark.

I think about him, talking to me,
clutching the dripping squeegee, slamming it
into the pool of murky blue
water. He walks to the entrance,
talks to the girl in the purple miniskirt
and yellow tights.
I follow them inside.

Welcome to paradise,
he says to the clerk, who hands him
a carton of cigarettes and a case of beer. Welcome
to paradise, he says to the suit,

paying for gas and condoms
on his AmEx. Welcome to
paradise, he says to the teenage boy
unloading the case of candy bars
in the aisle, aligning the red wrappers.

I circle the store, distant
and cold in my pajamas, and make my bed
on a stack of yesterday’s USA Todays.

I wrap myself in gray words
and blurred pictures, the print rubbing off
on my skin. I count my winks,
one by one, as they escape my grasp,
wondering if sleep will ever come home.