Fool, who do you think you are,
with work a-piled,
bills and papers
two stacks deep,
that you could
write poetry
while others
soundly sleep?

Fool, by what
god-given right,
by what
impulse idiotic,
do you have leave
to scribble words
that tarnish the evening,
disturb the night?

Fool, what do you
think you know,
what voices do you hear,
that raise you up,
disturb your flows,
compelling you to
write without fear?

Foolish thoughts,
ghostly mind noises,
incomplete visions of
words unspoken,
“I love you” uttered
but once or twice,
and then as just a token,
penance for what?

Fool wakes up screaming
“I do do love you,”
but you cannot hear yourself,
cause you confess
to caring lacking

So, lest the world
I do wake,
poetry by night,
I give and take,
writ in quiet silence,
and do not disturb
my hauntings, by it
somewhat soothed,
less perturbed


3:00am 8/26/93