is here
shivering in the wings
of pop culture

There's no death in it
no sadness
no Dickensian heartache

There's no old man
searching for God's approval
no young man
hungry for the
jazz of life

I'm only ready now for sleep anyway
sleep that beckons
on some hazy horizon
My eyes shutting out light
My breathing labored
My fingers too weary
to hold a pen

I hear my muse urging me
to surrender to the
lure of slumber

She's telling me
this is not my last poem
and sings me to sleep
on this soulless April night