the things that keep us up.

I have started to notice
that at night if I have had
coffee after four,
that someone plays basketball
in my chest until well past two.
I do not know if they are scoring,
only that they are dribbling
the ball in figure eights
like bullets to my endocardium.
And the baller,
or perhaps it is a drummer--
whomever is playing,
beats until I am
ragged and unrested,
until I am too tired
to think about the game
or who will win in the end.