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