Late

Late, again, and the tick tick goes on and on.
Outside there is four inches of ice and snow
And buried beneath is a small pile from my puppy.
The sleep that seems inside me is wanting out,
But my curiosity is keeping me up at night,
Playing with Google and its many functions.

My toes are cold.
My eyes are heavy.
My brain is clouded.
My wife is sick.

Early, still, and the clock hasn’t stopped its cycle
And outside there’s six inches of ice and snow
And buried beneath the covers is a small pile: my puppy.
I can’t help but feel that there is more to the insides of me,
More than sleepiness, more than blood and bones,
More than I am even aware of, but I know it’s there,
Wanting out.

Why, when it’s so cold and messy outside?
Stay in where it’s warm and gooey and hidden.
Stay in and hide and leave me alone.
Let me have my peace.

What are the merits associated with ambition?
When it is so easy to float, why should I rise above?
I’m comfortable. I’m restless, but comfortable.
Complacent. Satisfied. Appeased?

The lights are flickering.
My toes are cold.