He’s as tired as

Rip Van Winkle

and he’s ready,

actually longs,

to sleep for

twenty years,

but

given genetics,

he’s lucky to

have twenty

years left

under the best

of circumstances,

so he has to opt

for the usual eight

hours and happy

to have them,

but some of

them aren’t

particularly

pleasant: people

pissed off at him

for his voice,

fingers pointing,

accusations,

rejection, yes,

of course, the

assured shun.

He’s happy to

wake early,

take out

the dog, floss,

brush, take the

meds, gargle,

and brew a pot

of gourmet

coffee. Later in

the morning,

before he has

reason to write

about some other

issue, he

naps – a short

course in death

without dreaming.

Waking refreshed,

he writes another

editorial or poem

and the cycle

starts all over

again.