The Wee Hours
the cigarette is finished
I can postpone no more
my wrestling with the night
pills referee my fight
tomorrow will be daylight
on fresh fallen snow
I will write
with a dead twig
on fresh fallen snow
then throw the twig
into the open back
of a departing garbage truck
that leaves tired tire tracks
on fresh fallen snow
the night’s fears
inconsequential tears
whispers from past years
weak fires routinely snuffed out
on fresh fallen snow
Copyright © Ashok Niyogi | Year Posted 2005
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