3 a.m. - Paul DeMarco

[Lawrence Robinson]

3 a.m. 
 
The witching hour.
 
Suddenly awake, sweating,                 
to the wider horrors of the world,
 
gaping tears in the gauze 
I draw around myself 
to the shiver of a crumbling republic. 
 
Close fears, too, press tight:
a pang in the back, an elbow’s chirp,   
figments spinning into tangles of worry,
the undone I might never do. 
 
Regrets without remedy
ivy my chest: lost chances,     
blunders in love, words unsaid, 
wrong turns, friends lost 
to death, drift, disaffection.                
 
Even Brubeck and Monk fall short, 
and the old cat who purrs on my ribs, 
until I inhale, exhale, recall                                         
the moon’s pale smiles, 
duets of great horned owls,                                         
and the voice, the gentle voice:
 
“You are not alone. You are never alone.”
 
                      
	- Paul DeMarco
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