It's late
And there's no one home

It's early
And everyone's
Run off to work

It's midday
And anyone
Who's
Anyone
Wishes they were home

It's dinner time
And someone
Is taking in and putting out
Sprinkling and dipping
Adding or sliding
Grilling or spilling
As someone else is waiting
No idea
How lucky
They are

I have an energy
A low down one
A mean one
But
A congenial one
Fair
I think
I tell myself
I try to show
Others

It's late
And I'm still curious
Who this is
Pushing these keys.

Thoughts come to them
I
Is someone else
It's not me
Externally

Society shapes
The skin, the eyes, the hands, the
Splintered feet
The warped back
The crooked hips
The limp ****
The saggy *****
The misplaced ***** hair
The lumpy red dotted ***

All the horror
That I am
That I was
That I have always been

Future me.

It is late
And I'm
Turning around
Again

Either too numb to feel anymore

Or have felt so much
That, like Icarus, have burnt
Myself to my demise

This is the voice
Of voices
The one everyone
Tells you not to listen to
Not to worry about
Not to pay heed

I'll give you spilled flour
On the cutting board

I'll hand you a water cup
Overflowing to the floor

I'll give you my confusion
As two honeybees falling in love

The leaves are burning on the trees
And

It's late

But, I can't sleep.

Can you?