Two O'Clock in Houghton

Two  O’Clock in Houghton

 Having reached that point in the day,

When the customary morning gatherings

Are  persistent reminiscence;
When the sun glints between the buildings
Across the manicured square;
When the shadows grow long and crawl
Into my un-blinded window--
            Nearer days end
            Than beginning;
When the brook of visitors and callers
Has thinned to a listless trickle:

When my lids grow heavy,

When my chin bends toward my chest,
When my breath achieves the
            Rhythmic pulse of a
            Cloud falling apart
            into an otherwise spotless sky.

Contemplating crumbs,

From stolen lunch,
On just-cracked spines:
Speckled pillow.
I’ll move that pile,
            I promise
Those large boxes,
            I hope,
To make some room
For that sofa
Later.

Having reached that point in the day,

When the words have overwhelmed me
With their congenital failures;
When the whispers from the past float by
Toward unrequited beckoning;
When the work ahead is stacked higher still
Than any effort might relieve;
            Two zeds til    
            Two fifteen
When the new day’s promise sits removed  
From morning’s matted memories:
 
My distraction sits upon the
Consternation of yesterday’s rest,
The fifteen minutes spent in slumber,
            When well-served effort
            Would have cleared  the space
            For sofa: chunky napping place.
                                               
Having reached that point,
I can’t but daydream,
Downed, counting moments
As they beat, beat, beat,
Lucidly, fleeing,
             I yawn,
Toward that bigger couch,
            (I’ll sleep)
Where the lounge, the chaise,
Has been always,       
Already,
Always.

Past the point,

Again awake,

            Uncouched,

Unrecharged,

Slouching on,

Sleepy still,

Walking home,

Round the lake,

Fifth and Elm,

Again.