It isn’t enough we know this pain
down the ganglionic stem to its roots,
its intercellular ratchets and tufts, it
isn’t even enough the doctor mumbojumbos
various possible treatments, oh an entire
thriving industry of pills and saw-toothed pincers,
no what we want is a name

Sleep, sleep–then the kitchen trap
snaps, and my brain like the bait brie
leaps and lands spinning. Now morning
means a mess to sweep and a similarly
skewed conscience to tidy, so all night,
for the jumpy remainder of night, it’s
hazy half-dreams of Mickey from somewhere
out of a childhood Saturday, manly