WAY LATE (poem)

This is my schizo ode to nighttime. That uncertain time of night when nothing positive can possibly happen and the safest place in the world is on the couch with a bottle or under your sheets watching Carson.

WAY LATE
Nothing safe comes after midnight.
At least that's how
I've always seen it.

Useless alley cats howl
like a dying infant,
haunting your dreams

The phone rings;
It's the death call
--the one we
all dread getting.
Mom's dead,
Dad fell.

All at night,
and way late.

And then there's our ailments
The tooth hurts more;
Fever rages
way late.
Pain throbs
and throbs
and
throbs.

Way way late.

And that dude driving late
at night? Why, of course he's
drunk. Couldn't say no to
just one more

What about that car next door
that just parked?
Blowjob? Meth?

Your shady neighbor,
the one who looks down as
you pass him, keeps looking
out that broken window
Up and down, slammin’ it shut.
Way late.

Oh, and then there's the
white trash down the way.
Bottles clankin';
broken glass scatters
a scream
a slap

Siren light
revolves through your bedroom.
It reflects odd colors,
multiplying in the mirror.

You’re groggy, half awake;
The image of a faded
memory gives you
a mini nightmare.

way late

But then
the birds chirp,
and chirp
some more

In bed, you mellow.

An early jogger;
the pitter-patter
of expensive kicks;

Someone taking out the trash;
An engine starting;
A door slams a quick,
responsible slam;
Someone far sayin', “Morning”

The alarm darts alive
fuck.
another day.