3:43 AM
by Christopher King


Glasses off, darkness
a pointillist perspective.

Trillions of tiny dots
create shadow shapes,
simple trappings of this
cold motel room.

If I get up for water
I won't trip over toys
or shut the window
so no one gets a chill.

I won't put away plates
crusted with half eaten food,
trump the ants and roaches.

I won't creep quietly
around the sleeping dog-
he won't whine to go out.

I won't kiss little boy's foreheads
or put my glasses on to see you
in silk sheets, glowing from moon shine.

I wont walk in the cool dew
of my verdant backyard,
rejoice in roses under stars

I stare at dots of color
my dry tongue stuck
to the roof of my mouth.






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