I told her how to better get to sleep,
The nights she can't. Be still and close your eyes,
And then a little twist on counting sheep:
Go backward, from a thousand. Soon, surprise,
You're out. And though I promise I'll come in
To reassure her just in case she wakes,
Somehow the backward counting is akin
To hypnotism. All the time it takes
Is time to do the dishes, and to dry.
She asks me, why a thousand. I reply,
To give you room -- a hundred's not enough.
Some nights, I know, it's really, really tough.


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Comments
After reading quite a number of your poems now, the thing that shines through them is that they were written by a good human being at bottom. That is the base line. I am not therefore leaping to the conclusion that I would enjoy breaking a lot of bread with that good human being, but that base line is nonetheless an auspicious sign.
Thank you all for coming by. Have a little more patience -- beginning Tuesday my time is going to have a lot of unused acreage.
Goodnight everyone!
I couldn't possibly count backwards, I would lose track, have to begin all over.
But I show myself a scene, tell myself what if, and begin a tale that fails to see its conclusion.