Most of it happens
under the hex of
the small hours
between these brittle walls
in the chaotic silence of
daybreak
while the neighbors rush off
to work

Not a sound
but the hum of
a ceiling fan
toiling the extent of
my thoughts
til it's actually time to
“wake up"

The gentle crunch of
Kitty's breakfast
rings with such soothing
abrasiveness
even the crickets can't compare
Nothing can match that
care-free lifestyle I so long for

Long for...
How long exactly?
Three hours past dawn ought to
do it
unless dreary rays of light
burn through my eyelids
and rekindle the cyclical
carnival
that cons the day's authority
over sleep