It’s 4 a.m. and I’m alone in the world.
All the rooms are empty, the windows dark;
the road that passes the house, silent.
I woke past midnight, read about Rimbaud’s
renunciation of poetry. Now I’m tired enough
to sleep again.
What time should I set the alarm clock for,
I ask myself. No need to set it,
I realize: no trips to make tomorrow,
no obligations. Is that
good or bad, I ask myself.
I’ll answer that tomorrow.
Nov. 13, 2016