Pillow Talk.

I am tired, friend, but sleep (again) won't come.
Perhaps he's gone to market, for produce.
Or found a mattress better fitting.
But he's not one for calling.
Sleep doesn't make plans.
Will you lend a hand, Brother?
Have you seen the high road?
The morning trotters?
The leashed four footers?
With their tails trapped in wag.
I too wag and am wagged upon.
I remember water, and cotton, and little more.
Can't you lend a hand?
Move some stone?
Abide awhile?
Or have you notes to sign away?
Waivers to waiver upon?
Heavy hits hard along the jawline,
and my blood is still red as an '87 Corvette.
That kept watch of the driveway.
And growling (again) my void asks me-
"Have you another?" (and)
"Why have you not fed me?"
And it seems explaining this time is laborious.
"You're not a pup anymore, now bed down."
As her neck is too soft to plunge,
and she can use all the Iron she's got. 
I want the Sun to take me,
as every shoe is one day unfilled