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| jo'b |
Nights are troubled times—
wraiths, the should-have-beens,
await to meet me in my dreams.
I am too much alone,
too unforgiving of myself—
soft music fills the void,
and reading sometimes helps—
Sometimes my mind's not right,
as Robert Lowell confessed,
but still I would not say
that I myself am hell—
Quickly yet how in the dark
I'm back in my childhood bed,
pillow wrapped around my head
to keep the shouting out,
the insults and the breaking glass,
the one-man show at 3 a.m.
In the great relief of sunrise,
soundly in first light I sleep—
late to bed, and late to rise
keeps this man healthy—
if not wealthy. if not wise.
