Desperation comes at one forty five am
on a Sunday night while a new week’s promise
creeps on the dawn, and you begin to wonder
if the left side of the bed will ever
again be filled by a body who cares enough
to read the tiny whimpers you don’t know you make
deep in dreams,
dreams that morning will erase.
But these thoughts are only good for one forty five,
as eight am is for only thoughts of escaping radio static,
tease the dial and plan the quickest commute.
Noon, for thoughts of the hard boiled egg,
half an apple and brie sandwich that waits in the
break room, and four thirty five births thoughts
of the promise of freedom with five pm.
Desperation comes at one forty five am,
on a Sunday night while the weekend replays.
By two am, thoughts don’t come,
only dreams and your unconscious sighs
that fall on no one’s ears.