Poem With Three Naps and No Plot
  Marcus McCann

After a mews of nights below deadline,
hours you'd not turned your mind to
show up. If you're lucky,

you bolt home before weird shit happens.
A bilge pump for light would be handy
but probably sleep holds you

like the synthetic fur
inside a barbecue cover.
Choices grow exterior. Other times,

The One Drunk Night you keep running into
cabs you to a part of the city
called Frat Life.

All tomorrows' APBs: your body curls,
the juice your brain floats in
thickens. If you lie still

you might be found. We get
the naps we deserve, not the naps

we need. Remind me, at what stage
of plot does a novelist
express the highest and most noble

feeling? A slow
bureaucracy unwinds you,
the next hour so revealing,

so ominous it must be
redacted as it’s written. In the third act
the day lets itself in

to watch your passive, slack,
zonked out love and you,
and if you weren't asleep

in your slither of fluids
you might hold this afternoon
up and inspect its bezels and seams

and pencil in conclusions
with a happy buzz
like an appraiser with an oddity.

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