three am

the moon is full

this life is full

this writer is fool

fooled by a will of the wisp

a wisp that whispers “write”

and as I do, shivering in blue shorts

hunched over a key board illuminated by a plastic screen light

I wonder at the miracle of  two sleeping parakeets in a darkened room

Their cage arms reach to my right

And I consider this gift from God

my wife

sleeping in the other room

And in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity

I see my place in this  place called world

Back to bed and woman I take this near fifty nine body

Never too late to get it right, eh?

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