3 a.m. and sleep is a nimbus
that just won’t rain. It is hell
let out of its handbasket
and wandering the earth, its sole purpose
to torture you. It is a senseless cup
full of warm milk, autumn leaves bleached
of color and no alcohol to console you
because the knowledgeable jackals of life
insist it is bad for you. It is a stupid fact
of life and it is yours and is written, defined
that nothing is your fate or will allow you
blessed sleep. It is a diabolical, forbidden
black brackish milk laced with the forbidden brandy
that tastes of decay and stomach cramps, and
like the blazing slack glare of this digital 3 a.m.,
will never allow you to rest. It is your
fate and the freefall lack of sustenance.
It is the eternal hunger with no food.
Harry Calhoun has had work published at odd poetry whistlestops for the past 30 years. Last year, his poems were published in the book The Black Dog and the Road and his chapbooks, Something Real, Near daybreak, with a nod to Frost and Retreating Aggressively into the Dark. Life has been rather sad lately, with trips to the hospital, a seizure, broken ribs and broken faith. But on the bright side, he has recently had two Pushcart nominations and a Sundress Best of the Net nomination and publications in Chiron Review, Abbey, Orange Room Review, Gutter Eloquence and others. His heart, and hopefully his liver, will go on.