A painting before dawn.
It’s single digits in the morning
With a subtle hint of spring
And I’m shivering.
It’s as much from lack of sleep
As the breeze blown off the bay
Humidity-thick, crisp and cold
From just passed rain that wet the pavement.
Small splashes accent my footsteps
And the smells of spilt oils
Mix with the sea
And my car burning antifreeze.
God, yesterday was years ago
All mixed victory and defeat
Every triumph met with tears
And not what I’d expected
Three half-hours ago
Let alone two odd years.
Why does all anger come this easily
Now all joy, now all despair?
Now you’re held high and always right
Now upturned and always wrong
And always looking towards another then.
I think I’m waxing philosophical
As I’m waning on awake
Retracing roads by muscle
And lost in sleepless thoughts.
It seems at every crisscrossed street
Sleepy traffic lights are blinking
Causing cars to pause.
Too many other humans
Out too early or too late
Turning on to Tree streets
Turning off of mine
How did I come to stumble here
All weariness and wanderlust?
Directions scribbled on napkins
Or maps from memory?
It’s misplaced sleep or loss of blood
Or rules of love rewritten
It’s the tattered edges of days gone by
And dreams pushed farther on.
Inward, toward, upward, forward
With every spent second
The future’s slipping in to past.
No right on red at Pleasant.
Left arrow at the next light.
Right. Left. Stop. Driveway.
And no light on the back stairs.
I’m all fumbling and far too loud
Knocking tables, dropping keys
Dropping in to darkened dreams
And still wearing my shoes
A strained attempt to disentangle
A wet and single digit morning
From the fringes of a yesternight.
What is it about prime numbers and music in odd timing signatures?