One summer I spent every night

awake and wandering. Watched the cartoon

channel that flowed all hours—decades-old

shows draining black seconds. Saw

“One Froggy Evening” for the first time,

the Broadway-singing frog’s phonograph songs

tearing down a world as fast as Acme Construction.

I held my thin, black sleeve

to the lamp. The light shone straight and strong

through every fibre,

emblazoned an asteroid cloud of cotton dust

in my clothes.

                         The mornings, now, are like smoke,

even though I’m cleaner and more alert.

I eat breakfast now. I might be nostalgic

if I knew what it meant, but the word won’t form

in high numbered hours.

No shade of regret floats like bacteria in this

crisp air, though there is regret.

I solved the mystery of the dark thump

at my door each night near 5 AM.

Sometimes I read the paper.