In An Over-Stocked Box
I used to scream in my sleep
Laugh like a hyena, or so I thought.
I would awaken with a start
Flailing after scattering remnants
Of immediately forgotten dreams.
There must have been a joke
Absurd enough to bust my gut
Cause me to cry out with blithe
Disregard for my sleeping partner.
Would that I could recall it
I’d write it down or record it
Keep it locked in the trunk
Which sits at the foot of my bed.
In an over-stocked box
Of unavailing ideas, the empty
Pages of neglected recollections
Are piling up night by night.