midnight

(all right, I realize
you can tell I am not
writing this at midnight,
and yes, the moonlight
would be cast shadows
a little shorter at twelve;
but let me tell you, Buster,
you’re not as sharp
as you think:
the light in here is not
moonlight; the full moon
was two weeks ago,
and this light is
actually orange street-lamp,
the kind you can look down
from your red-eye flight
and see in silly sequined rows
the way we used
to see farmers’ fields
outlined in summer. So there.
Okay, so it’s one am
and I’m dragging my butt
down the hall to go to
the can when I see)

That shadow on the rug
could be a hole in the floor.
Do I dare step there?
Screw it; if I fall I fall
all the way to the underworld
to dance with demons.
If I don’t, I get to the can.
Who caress?
This is probably a dream anyway:
I’ll fall, but there won’t be demons
other than myself
wearing somebody’s face
trying to be exciting
but always being me:
the night time unsurpriser
who plays the same tricks
that never fail to
engage the brainless dreamer.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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