Brett Rogers

Four A.M. - Poem by Brett Rogers

[In a 1440 minute day
There is one,
(A 4-0-0 or the 240th)
Inescapable …
It appears
In the dark, dark, last dark
On my skinny, smoky street corner …
It creeps into creepiness …
Like -
“I learned a new word”,
It is here and there,
Used and infused,
Within a procession of the Sun or two …
Or, maybe, resembling -
I dream the strangest real things …

The cherry is a perfect volcano!
And white death,
Blue in the moonlight,
Swirls magically
From my yellowing fingers.
Join me!
As I welcome those
Scorned and burdened
With undeservedness …]

To the dregs of the night!
To thee!
I two-step
And talk amongst myself
Now and again,
And now and again and again…
In that
Elitist fourth hour,
Ink-stain sky,
Identity-less morn.
In that warmness:
The Sun,
Closing in on the head of our rain cloud,
Everything sticky
And thick;
The best part
during the quick lay:
These short Summer nights.

[The smoke moves through me in and out.
The flooding light
Accents my extended arms:
Blotchy and pale
With wristy fores
And girly wrists.
I will wear these shorts
With flip-flops
And no socks,
So under-the-car kitties
Can wrap their tail
Around my calf,
And keg-head raccoons,
And other clawed, furry-browns,
Can take a chance
And gnaw my ankle,
Or scamper away
With a mouthful of
Monkey toes,
Against their best intentions.]

Eyes in the darkness,
Watch me:
I stand under a lonely street lamp
Illuminating a corner
(So the proud lamp can bellow,
“I light two streets”) ,
A glow
That would just perfectly fit
Me and a beautiful one.
(She smiles slightly,
And says,
When asked by those
Awed at her
Track-less beauty,
“The right man is out there,
I just haven’t found him yet.”)

Panic peddlers,
I see what you see.
It seems
(It’s probably been a while) ,
But I have only now
Just noticed
That the baby in me
Has ceased to be.
Chubby cheeks slendered
And disguised
Along a worn and thorn path.
My hazy, forgiving friend
Mr. Shadow,
Imitates perfectly
My socially-climbing jaw line,
Carpeted with
Domesticated fuzz,
Resting slightly below the horizon
Upon my
Suit-tie neck.

* * * (quiet)

[My minutes are up
(4 of course,
alone with deathliness and the dark morning) .
The last little bit
Has burned my bottom lip]

The street-lights will burn on
For an hour or two …

In my dreams,
If I am so lucky to -
I will see
The young boy me
Stare sadly
As the sky-high lamp
Flickers and begins its watch,
A gray-steel Mother bidding me
To come in out of the dark.

Topic(s) of this poem: aging, childhood , self reflection

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Poem Submitted: Friday, March 13, 2015

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