The Insomniac

Stretched out in the back of the bus
a woman twitches in her sleep,
reminds me of a fish.

Her mouth opens and closes,
her hair like limp seaweed
lining a beach down the shore.

All along the Jersey coast,
green and blue bottles wash up
under the boardwalk

each holding
an undecipherable message
written in urine and blood.

A figure appears in the surf
swimming parallel to the shore,
a crowd gathers and points.

She has long yellow hair,
appears to have a tail
covered in iridescent scales.

The insomniac wakens,
we are alone on the bus
except for the driver.

The moon rises, peeks out
from behind clouds like the lens
of a lighthouse, bright then dark.

Fishermen wade out in the surf
lifeguards race from their nests
like sea birds hungry for prey.

The mermaid turns into a fish—
I hold the insomniac in my arms,
she sells her tears for a ticket home.