Untitled (2002)

A man who had not slept

Stepped through a marbled hall.

It was late, but the window let in a trace of light-

And across the buff of the floor, polish of one mahogany door,

A bright moonbeam crept.

His wrinkled hand rested on its brass handle,

But it had been locked, absentmindedly.

He sighed for a moment, called for a key,

But the sound rang,

Echoing futilely.

So he rheumatically sat

With the candleholder gold

And the waxy dripped candle old

With the key in his pocket that he had forgot-

To wake to the morning light,

And a chirp from behind,

And the cool that warmed his drowsy mind.

Edited 7/5/14