2 A.M.


I want to shoot myself to sleep.
2am got a song on repeat.
Her voice dragging on gravel,
a boot off a pickup, plodding
crooked lines laced with whiskey and hay,
unturned engines buzzing my brain.

I watch clouds collide.
Lightning streaking sky.
Cocktail thoughts weaving in
a gentle swagger.
Until a fist punches through plaster.

No sense at all,
this late night call.
The fly over plane
looking down on eggshell lights,
wondering about their yolky lives.

A passenger on a train,
when I rode to the city at 6am,
dark pouring down graffiti streets,
bourbon over ice,
crackling and melting hours
a stir to greet

Women cloaked in terry robes,
shaking insomnia with barefoot toes,
yellin’ at their spouses:
2am, go to hell! You senseless maggot!
Crawling into wall cracks,
skittering around fences.

Familiar faces, places
stroll down fleshy lobes.
Roll tape.
Rewind time.
Keep me up to know I’m alive.

Too much brightness in the dark.
Too many words marching at the start.
And all I want to do is shoot the fuckers,
but I’m too weary,
too lazy with a lucid stutter.

I shuffled down the hall
to let ‘em in.
Wipe your feet. Grab a tea.
Come out from under the tree.
We link our arms, Night and I.
2am, What’s on your mind?

S S Hicks


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