SORROWFUL MYSTERIES

Sometimes you wake up and realize 

that you need something the pillow won’t 

give you.  You are between nightmares and 

closing your eyes doesn’t do the trick, 

even if you’re beat-down tired.  You look 

out the bedroom window then get up

and cross the vast field of your apartment 

to the kitchen window.  You pretend 

what the moon would look like if there was 

a moon.  You wonder what you would eat 

if you were hungry.  Outside, you see 

the neighbor’s cat, on hand for what 

either of you might require.  It is 

2:30 a.m. and all you have 

is your own version of what life is.  

2:30 a.m:  when everyone 

thinks such things.  You are desperate, yes?  

And damned if you know what that’s about. 

You are doing your best.  You know this.  

You repeat it like the mysteries 

of the rosary:  “I’m doing my best.  

It’s all I can do.  I’m doing my best.”  

Back in bed, you stroke your lover’s arm 

and think of what a long way you’ve come.

You will make notes about this—study 

why the gray, rainy roads are the ones 

that stir you.  It’s 3:00 a.m.  You tell 

yourself that  it’s a good thing you don’t 

depend on night for consolation.  

If you did, you’d never make it through.