Wrecking Ball

I am sleeping like a ship

Full of bones and bullets

Buried in the sand

Where there used to be an ocean 

I am sleeping like an aggie,

like a cat’s-eye or an alley,

rolled into a crack between the floorboards 

of the house that I grew up in

listening, then as now,

for the first resounding note

of the symphony of the wrecking ball

I am sleeping like the rubble 

of the house that I grew up in

I am sleeping like a floorboard,

creaking as I snore. Most of all,

I am sleeping the satisfied sleep

of the wrecking ball

I am sleeping like a slap 

Like a bar of soap squirted 

From your fist

I am sleeping like a butter knife

In the bottom of the drawer,

 beneath a blanket of spoons,

dreaming of its marriage

to the whetstone