In The Evening Poem by Robert VazquezPacheco

Night poetry has a gravitas easily dispelled
By a pint of good ice cream and a good

Engrossing infomercial. But in order to languish
In that sweet spot, it is better to stay away from

The reefer and the remote. Pull ole Marcus A
Off the shelf and indulge in subtle but bracing

Moments of sobriety amid the fleeting pleasures
Of life. Options rise out of the darkness like the

Weeds in the field across the street: two feet high
And quiet. Not a cricket anywhere. An August

Field empty of crickets is worthy of late night
Ruminations. Ah, the mystery of life and what-not.

Night passes slowly for solitaries and insomniacs
Even with the moon waxing gibbous. Sleep

Deserts you when you think too much, living
You in another kind of desert. Ask St. Anthony

And the Buddha. At least temptation helps pass
The time. Write a letter to God and burn it.

Something to do, a melancholic distraction, when
There’s nothing on the Tube. If you have no time,

Then there is no time to waste. Simple, eh?