No one counts sheep
to fall asleep
except for wolves
in old cartoons.
Pillow-headed
beneath balloons
of woolen dreams
they salivate,
hoping each sheep
will be, in truth,
a lamb, and thus
the more tender.
Picture these wolves
when they wake, how
heartsick they are
that no leaping
sheep has cleared sleep’s
wood-slatted fence
to land upon
their lolling tongues.
So there they lie,
(awake, the same
as me), staring
at the ceiling,
mumbling curses
at what’s not there
for having for-
sook them again,
curses they’ll rue
(as I do, though
I sic curses
only after
wolves—as if they
are all that haunt
me) when the sun
burns the morning.
