Four  A.M. Tuesday morning,

not a time for the weary and dead

to be awake, a pregnant

pause

on the step outside my stone palace,

my brick inflicted mortuary

and a drag of my small but fast burning cigar,

the smoke burning my throat, but the taste,

the flavour at four A.M.  is a delight,

it conjures up images of battles won and victory

taken for a test ride, one not covered in the manual,

for my notebooks don’t have such validation,

I am not meant to win, I am not the kind of person

to stumble away from humble opportunity

or delve deep into the outrageous behaviour

that comes with the cock crowing

at dawn.

 

Four A.M., a time for ghosts and spectres

to haunt the outside world

and by sitting on my step, by taunting the ghosts

with my daring to infringe upon their world,

a world where the outline of the church

sends shivers down my spine,

where I bravely stare back at the glowing orange

eyeballs peeking a look at me through the bushes on the other side

of the road,  the gravelly pot holed road

that stands before us,

for at four in the morning, this time

is mine to own, no other creature can piss

on this human wreckage, not outside my door

with a small cigar in hand, its nib a glow,

its fire burning with alarming consumption;

a sample of my day, a time when I am awake

and dead at the same time, a time to take on all,

a time to retreat into my shell.

 

Four A.M.

the shadows start to lengthen.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017