Sans melatonin capsules,
five hours is a dream.
(I see what I did there.)

Past fifty, there is
a great perturbation in nature
I’d love to wash my hands of.
 
I wander lonely as a cloud
of brain fog wisps through
my slumbery agitation,

meandering between 
the office and the tv,
thoughts of coffee yet? or no,

to give up the ghost of last night 
as my brain cries to bed to bed to bed?

What’s done cannot be undone.