Its 3 o’clock in the morning
I lay here in this bed trying to sleep
But there is no sleep to be found
The persistent meow of alley cats
Screech through the night air like a symphony
Tearing open the notes
There is a certain kind of innocence here
A naturalness. Everything seems to be in its proper place
A sort of understanding with the gods
Here there are no premeditated thoughts
Just real life playing the part of real life
And somehow all those alley cats
Seem to make it through another night
As the yellow moon is watching with beaming eyes
I sit quietly in my small room as
Soft shadows dance upon my wall like old friends
I can hear the sound from treetops of green
And birds chirping for their breakfast like small children
I slip out from my bed
And open the old wooden window in the corner
The night air is cool as it comes rushing in
To try and get out from the cold. Everything is sleeping but me
And those alley cats and the moon
I sit without making a sound gazing out the window
At rooftops of black tar attached to old houses
Bellowing smoke from crooked chimneys that melt
Into the night air. The minutes pass like years
The sun waits anxiously to burst upon the new day
There is a mixture of night and day at the same time
Like time itself has stopped
And all those alley cats and the moon have all but disappeared
Like ghosts into the night. As the sun breaks open the black sky
And brings the promise of a new
I wait in quiet anticipation for the sun to burn away
The layers of day and make room
For the silence of the oncoming night
And that once again
3 o’clock in the
Morning..
- Ken Riccio original poems ©
