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