The Sandman missed us last night, when all of the good salt of the earth people were asleep.
The rattle of two quarters in a tin cup kept me up, the frantic gasping of a fever patient, water, water. Except it’s not water, it’s nickel and zinc and copper. The stuff found in holes so deep, that when the world sat down they were crushed into being valuable. Water, water.
The sand ticks, and I look for the dew droppers, and dream collectors. They take all the little white wisps that float up and get caught in the banisters, the rafters, and the fans that only have time to turn, turn, turn. They put them in the dream bank with an eagle feather, a marble set, and a green crystal rock.
The blankets and the sheets hiss and strike, always wrapping, constricting. The things that go bump in the night twist and shake because everybody needs a holiday sometime. Two boys listen, and are lilac-ed away by a string of gilded words which smell like rose flavored Turkish delights. These aren’t those words. The boys aren’t heard from again.
An army of ruddy faced pajama warriors call out to the sandman, asking why the sand only grits and grinds between eyelids and teeth, bringing relief never more.