Drinking the Tigris: Coffee

10 weeks on the night shift now. I am wrapped in night. Crushed by 12 hours of fluorescent whitish - green hum 7 days a week. I am a mushroom. An owl. A dung beetle. A big bleary eyed night wrapped marsupial. I know the stars by heart and where they are at all hours. I know the moon's phase and I measure the weeks by it. I forage, growl, drag from the fridge to the phone to the door to the computer to my chair. When I drive I bounce my head on the headrest to stay awake like a fat baby in a high chair. I'm a wreck. The wind outside is always dead except for the cutting vibrations of helicopters when they land. Even after they're gone, there's a constant low frequency vibration in my head and in my hands that I understand to be a call for coffee - I throb for caffeine at all times. I want to take my bones out of my arms, unscrew the caps on the ends and fill them up with the milky heat then shake them like martinis. I'm am a slogging sack of night worms, wanting for light and slow sandy heat. But for now, all I've got is a Styrofoam cup of coffee, twice per night.

I need to go home now.