I could see the failure of sleep but that was only an idea I sold myself at sunrise. The waitress at the Waffle House had a run in her stocking exposing a varicose web on the back of her calf. No sleep. There was a box by the dumpster, crushed and lonesome, done with its utility. America’s best coffee. I couldn’t stand the stuff. All jittery with no burst of emotional superiority. The awfulness of the tungsten light blinking out of the street lamp like a shawl around my shoulders. This is the place I gave up on fatigue, I thought to myself, ready to dislodge the memory in favor of nothing.
By Hank Cherry
