Insomniac Voyeur

Insomniac Voyeur


by Bob Hicok


There’s another man on my block who can’t sleep,
I’m an admirer of his insomnia,
it’s a tool like a glass of water is


to thirst. In his case
something like music is made, I know
because my insomnia stalks his. Our street


is lined with maples and has
no streetlight and all the dogs
sleep inside and twitch in dreams


to the scent of blood. I can stand
invisible at the edge of his yard
under a canopy of leaves and listen


to his fingers keep his spinet awake.
I don’t think he knows music
in the sense of sounds


arranged into emotions or chords
that burrow under the walls of reason.
Neither is it melody so much


as the intent to open a space
in the night that convinces me
to sit against a tree and close my eyes


to the brocade of stars. He favors
whole notes and will repeat
a bright passage so long it becomes


a familiar name. Other nights
he slaps and paws as if disemboweling
the ocean. I prefer


sloppy panic to sweet confusion
because it takes longer for the echo
and the memory of the echo


to be lost as companions
when he’s afraid. When he stops playing
I take my insomnia home to hug


its fiancé, the TV. At six a.m.,
just before the rude kiss of the sun,
someone’s alive but not me.



Bob Hicok
Published in Ploughshares