Awake again at 9pm
with the last rays of sunlight
still filtering through the window,
I zero in on my favorite slapbrush ceiling spiderweb
contemplating the next few hours
before going in to work at midnight.

Ideally, I’d be out until a series of alarms
at odd intervals like 11:07 and 11:23
unleash their racket as commanded,
but now they’ll just be minor annoyances
interrupting whatever bullshit
I turn to for passing the time.

Mostly that’s just finding something to watch online;
televised distractions or consumable lust
to keep the realities of life at bay.
This schedule wouldn’t work as well
with a wife or kids
or even someone to cuddle with for a night.

I wonder about the risk of going somewhere
like karaoke bars I used to close on stage
before we drunkenly walked over to White Castle.
The hesitation is beer before forklifts
is a recipe for disaster
I really don’t want on my conscience.

Then my eyes wander around the room
to my desk where they rest on a laptop
that hasn’t been turned on in months.
In my heart, I know
it’s a treasure chest waiting to be opened.
These hours are ripe for freedom and creativity.

It’s a direction where my compass has been lost,
an oasis that isn’t a mirage
and a resolution for a writer growing stagnant:
to make the most of what life gives,
which for me right now seems
to be the last hours of the day.