Acequia

The night tosses my sleep about the bed.
It pretzels my legs.
The sheets escape to a quiet place on the floor to slumber.

I murmur a thousand unintelligible untruths,
to be released from this nightly torment.
Ten years. Twenty years. Thirty years and more.

Along my spine is a map of linen folds.
In the air above my bed ten-thousand torn post-it notes
slip away from their messages.

Deep waters flood into the field adjacent to my open window.
The acequia gate opened by tricksters, drunks
or, more likely, old man Rodriguez for his blooming acres.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney