What is it about 3 o'clock in the morning?
Bing! Your eyes pop open,
And there you are, staring up at
The soft underbelly of the universe.
Those billions of little tiny colored dots
Dance in the middle distance and
Swirl around, tracing the path of something
That must have rushed by an instant before.
"OK," you say, "It's 3 o'clock in the morning.
Close your eyes." But bing! Dots again.
Time to reach out to the Sentientness.
"Hello God, it's me, you know, Robert.
Have a minute to chat?"
"Hello Robert. Your call is very important to us,
But come on kiddo, it's 3 o'clock in the morning
And we are experiencing higher than normal call volumes.
Your approximate wait time is until hell freezes over.
Requests will be answered — or not —
In the order in which they were submitted.
Or if you prefer not to wait you can go to our website at
www.GodBeMe.com/FAQ for 24/7 attention."
By then you have forgotten
The nature of your particular supplication.
This side of your pillow is too hot.
And you have to pee.
Also at 3 o'clock in the morning, brains shrink.
Celebrities and Gen X, Y and Zers, incapable
Of lucid speech or basic mobility
Decide to drive home from the club,
And hang the Lamborghini,
Or more often, their parent's Ford,
Up in the low-hanging branches of an oak.
Its grill, their career and their lives
Have all sustained major damage
Or been put on permanent hold.
The dead engine gently pops and pings
As it cools in the chill of night.
Then suddenly you become aware
That if you lie there, oh so quietly,
There are still crickets somewhere.
Rain falls softly just beyond the eaves,
The wind sifts through the house.
Your love rolls over and now
Sleeps, softly, quietly, almost silently,
And life becomes calm again.
Ah, you notice — no wonder.
It's now 4 o'clock in the morning.
