Sleep Sits by My Feet and Waits

I lean back, I do not lie,
my neck secure in the palm
of a small pillow, I stay
busy until i cannot,
slipping into a sort of sleep,
book disappears to a place
I will not know until tomorrow,
the work I have set aside
enlists in the wars in my dreams
 
The rain outside has the timber
of the newsman on TV
There are presidents and bad news
but they are now a nonsense
 
Once in a while the bed calls
to the old man inside me,
to lie on my side, hand under
the peace of a pillow, inside
the forgetfulness of sleep