POEM - Four A.M.

Four A.M.
Who do I think I am kidding?
I lie here trying to cheat sleep
Again. Maybe this is how death
Will come to me, in a creep, not
In one violent blow but as
Theft of my own replenishment
Bereft of loving refreshment.

Who am I trying to kid?
This gray flat garden terrain is
My breakfast these days; an oatmeal
Lacking the flavor sleep provides.
Mid-November sits outside, with
No recallable visage. A
Crayola carpet, wall to wall
With absentee color. Even
Light is limp with a sleepless verve.

So I get up because playing
Games in my head this early in
The morning, before the birdsong,
Before my dreams are done, flapping
Like film spun off a movie reel
Incomplete and unwatched, just seems
Wrong to me. I get out of bed
To face the tombstone white page
Empty and alone again at
Four A.M.