Sleeplessness

a poem by Roger B Rueda

In bed, I’m not lured by sleep
to its home,
the dreamland –
my imagination is like a kite:
I fly it at the end
of my mind.
By the clock
on the wall, it’s 5.52 AM.
Sleep is drawing near,
smiling and waving,
its hugs seductively
warm and easy.
Should I yield to its
sweet caress?
Should I visit
the dreamland
at dawn?
Or should I displease sleep
by pouring a generous
measure of hot coffee into it?