Nearing Sleep

He felt it creeping up on him like a peculiar pet
Who wanted to remain unseen,
Who loved his only master yet—as yet—
Lagged behind, eyed him from strange corners
Not wanting to become distracting or be fed

Until the master’s work was over.
Night wailed an eclipse.
World and wonder contracted to an interior room
Of questionable importance. Behind thick curtains.

What the dog recognized by the same signs
As the master did, that no one was talking,
Arms, legs akimbo, all assuming languid poses,
And the corner window swiftly a black, black wall
Unconcerned with response—

Was sleep, sleep, when the shadows want
To enjoy the play, seat themselves where the people
Sat, assume the chairs
Where we once twitched. Prodding—you, if you are still there—
Like a puppet, a puppet.

—Darryl Lorenzo Wellington

Darryl Lorenzo Wellington's work has appeared in The Progressive, The Journal of Blacks in Higher Education, The Washington Post Book World, and elsewhere. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina.