Noon to Eight


Tomorrow will be different, I suppose.

Less cold, and more familiar.

But here in the ice gnarled streets,

where the smoke from chimneys of far

off houses mocks my progress, I shut

my eyes. The leaves, in piles across the

lawn have been raked and put in

black plastic bags that nearly burst

when I line them up along the curb.

It's back to the grind tomorrow.

Deadlines, paper jams, and traffic snarls.

And I've come to crave the monotony.

At least in theory, yet in the thick

hours, after midnight, when all my neighbors

swim in dreams, and snore their nightmares

onward, I find sparse words. Or long dead

fragments of ideas that tend to meld just so.

Comfort is a blank lined page.

Now half-full with truth, and awe, and

what time clocks strangle with such sad