DEAD OF NIGHT
I wake up in the dead of night.
I’m of that certain age where this is common circumstance.
Nothing to summon the doctor for.
The stars stare through my window as if daring me,
Challenging me to do something, anything.
Perhaps they are simply laughing at me.
But the dead of night is not for doing something, anything.
The dead of night is only there to be tolerated.
It’s a fierce and unforgiving blankness,
Something I must abide, endure…stomach until the morning arrives.
It is a standoff until I stumble back to sleep again
Or until the sun forces its way into the sky
And tells the dead of night to wait,
Wait until its time comes again.