NAP

NAP

His friend knocked

His door one afternoon,

Waking him from

His nap.

It was usual,

It was normal,

But the caller wasn’t.

He seethed and

Put his trousers on

And seethed

And opened the door.

‘You can sleep

Enough when you’re dead,’

Sniggered the friend,

And reeled off

His business,

Busy and always

Going somewhere,

Anywhere,

A path of constant

Footsteps.

As he closed

The door behind

His friend, skimming

Off to make

More episodes

Of hurry,

He frowned

And tried hard

To find sleep.

But he couldn’t,

And seethed,

And knew why.

He took up

A pencil,

And stared

And thought

And chewed,

And finally began

To sketch

His bed,

His feet

Elbowing out

The bottom

Like unwelcome guests.

He continued along

This track for

Days, for weeks,

For months,

Drawing what was

In front of him,

Not thinking,

Not seething,

Moving on to

Pastels, then

Watercolours, then

Oils, never

Resting, just doing

And being busy.

His friend knocked

The door one afternoon,

Disturbing him from

A portrait of

His bottle, half

Drunk.

He seethed and

Put his trousers on.

His friend was stunned

To find the house

Brimming with pictures

Of the house,

And pictures of

The pictures

In his house,

And he stuttered

An excuse and

Left, for he

Was busy.

He frowned

As he closed

The door behind

His friend,

And seethed.

‘You can sleep

Enough when you’re dead,’

He thought.

‘What heaven.’

And he removed

His trousers

And got into bed.