When he goes to bed every night,
He turns his back on half the world
And plants his right ear to the pillow
Listening perhaps for hoofbeats
Of sheepish sleep approaching.

A few minutes or some hours later
He turns to face with a quiet groan
The other half of the ignoring world,
Taking care to keep up appearances
Even though no one had cared for him.

I’ve never seen him fully-guarded:
Never belly-down, never foetal.
And I’ve never seen him fully-open:
Never belly-up, never blanketless.
He sleeps like he fights his days.

One wonders if his dreams, at least,
Bring him the peace he so seeks.

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