Insomniacs of the world, awake! Oh, wait, never mind.
dreamed 2008/8/22 by Wayan.
I'm in San Francisco, in a flat on Geary Street
in a drooping flock of writers and reporters:
migrant birds of news (I won't say vultures).
What putrid cow of culture do we tear and eat?
Never mind. Too tired tonight. Too late.
Talk ebbs to whisper; we sag to sleep, sardined
on beds, couches, even the rug--except for three.
A florid old newsman, hard-drinking by the red
But author and newshound both are far
too beat to hear a sleep-addled fan.
Card shuffles to a full bed, hits the deck;
in moments he's out of play, face-down.
Droopy news-beagle flops on a couch. I ask
Now what? Sleepers all around. Bored.
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