Nighttime Protest

My bed and I
have a nightly ritual,
an ongoing debate,
about life:

Life is meant
to be pondered
and lived,
he says.

All I want,
I slap back,
is sweet sleep.

He, of course,
is king,
and my mind,
unfortunately
silently protests,
unwilling
to stand ground.

Neither of us
is content
to concede
the quarrel
until the wee
morning hours.