The Lonely Hours

The second hand on the clock marches,
dances a stiff two-step circle.

Sleep flees, an unfaithful spouse,
courts everyone else while I lie
still as a corpse, pretending not to notice,
not to care. The rest of the world
sinks into its embrace.

My conscience sparkles like clean plate
glass. My body a race horse, ridden
hard and put up wet. If I were a rode
doper, I’d be a recovered one,
stimulant free.

God does not whisper to me.
I receive no visions.
I am simply awake, witness to the hours.