Staying
up past the hours of a school night
Was
the thrill of a nine year olds young mind.
What
wonder is held beyond hours night,
What
is seen that is not allowed of me?
I used
to plea and beg for an extra hour,
Hoping
to see the magic that takes place.
My
patience wore thin for years that have past,
Finally
I was granted the hours.
Time
for things to do that was not done,
I am
now allowed to scoff at those below.
Because
I know the satisfaction here
But
nothing really happens, no magic
Appears,
it’s just the extended day.
I work
and wait while the night keeps me there
Its
held my eyes open as my body grows
I require
less sleep since my temper
Can
be held tight beneath my face to shield
Those
from a tantrum that is needed.
I
sit at my desk writing this script tonight
And
wish for the afterhours to let go
Growing
older its now time to face fact
The
night creeps in and takes away the young
A
body grows stiff and loses mass
When
you do nothing but stay awake nights
My
joints stay seated and sealed in their place
Unbending
takes patients, an older brain
Everything
has flipped and now I dread the late
What
used to be exciting and new
Is
now the fact I wish not to face through
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Early Sunday Morning
I used to mock my father and his chums
for getting up early on Sunday morning
and drinking coffee at a local spot
but now I’m one of those chumps.
No one cares about my old humiliations
but they go on dragging through my sleep
like a string of empty tin cans rattling
behind an abandoned car.
It’s like this: just when you think
you have forgotten that red-haired girl
who left you stranded in a parking lot
forty years ago, you wake up
early enough to see her disappearing
around the corner of your dream
on someone else’s motorcycle
roaring onto the highway at sunrise.
And so now I’m sitting in a dimly lit
café full of early morning risers
where the windows are covered with soot
and the coffee is warm and bitter
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