by Allan Padgett

So the easterly is blowing hard
through the gum trees & local sky
& it rips me from the sleep that is
so hard to find. Transistor switched

to on, News Hour from 4-5 am
on the BBC hounds me for an hour
with tales of terror & death & further
species of horror, but staying with it,

my eyes drift to the ceiling & as
a restless banging continues I stare
& stare & further ponder its meaning.
Is there a goanna in the roof space?

Not likely, it is thinner than the choc-
olate skin on a Mr Whippy these days.
Damn, now my ear worm has been activated,
so the next three days is a horror of jingle.

The roof space is filled to brimming with
insulation & electric cords & water pipes,
the everyday things that go hard to make
our lives so sweet, so bloody incomplete.

The solution finally arrives, it’s taken far
too long given its skinny simplicity –
a large window has been left open, propped
at the lock it stage, & since wind has a habit

of seeping in or blowing like a gale on sleep
& peace & aloneness & the minor, first-world
horrors of insomnia, I decide to rise & shine
before the sun sends its deadly rays my way.