Meatloaf

Do you ever really take a nap?
Appears, perhaps, more like
the nap takes you,
like meatloaf in a sandwich:
thick between two sofa pillows.

Unconsciousness begins to lick,
to nibble, then to chomp
and chew and swallow;
and, as lunch, what choice
is there? You follow.

Macerating in some
dark Imagination’s gut, you are,
you guess, digested into
nourishment, but all you’re
sure of is, you come back up

as discards: numb
undifferentiated undigested
ears and elbows, hands and feet:
detritus: all the stuff that naps
can’t eat, and must excrete.

.