It's 1:42 a.m.

It's 1:42 a.m. and I decided

To write a poem because

I want to be human.

Today was my sabbath and I didn't

Finish my work until 1:42 a.m.

I met my friend, I helped my friend,
I taught guitar to at-risk teens,

I went to the bazaar and bought eight kilograms

Of laundry soap because that was the only one of that brand they had.

I don't care; it was for my friend.

I like teaching literature class.

I like reading everything.

I say I'm a poet but I'm burning both ends.

So this is my "I hereby claim these lands."
A whimper for the old man.
A grasping flag in the sand.

It's 1:47 a.m.

I'm going to bed.

My Grandfather

Had a steer, that would come up to him
And plant his head in his chest.

Young Bobby would wrap his arms around his neck,
Clinging to the beast as it tore off across the pasture.

A sudden stop, and Bobby tumbles head-over-heels
Lanky limbs sprawling, grasping for orientation.

The steer laughs, comes over to the boy
Sitting there shaking his head,
And plants his head in his chest:
"Again," he says.

If

I am tired
And my eyes are shadowed plum purple

And I have neither time nor energy for writing poems.

At least I am a literature teacher.
And get to read William Carlos Williams
For a som or two.