I am no more than a clever hand
Finger-walking around a quiet house
About the time that midnight
Turns the corner into morning
It’s a nailed down fact that the sun
Is only on vacation, not retired or fired
I know it to be true, I’m sure of it
Fairly sure, or at least I was
If I were gripped by ruminations
On some dire catastrophe
Inescapable, Hamlet-like, brooding
Then I might style myself tormented
But no, not bedeviled, but be-imped
Mosquito-stung, more or less
Mostly less. Has the milk turned?
Will I need to buy more stamps next week?
Is that place in the yard where the grass died
Something that needs immediate concern?
Why can’t I remember where I left my lighter?
I’ve got others, but where did that one get to?
I will not look at the clock, I won’t
I refuse, and now it is 3:14 and now
It is still 3:14 and I could swear
That those numbers will never change
Like some mediocre circle of some mediocre hell
Cut from the Inferno by Dante’s publisher
The Pit of Non-returners Of Overdue Library Books
Condemned to meander through an endless night.