Why am I and who made me the watchman
Over this parody of an estate,
This mockery of a castle. The ashcan
Glows and grows heavy. I sit, puff and wait
For rest to find its way into this house
Of long aching shingles, bone creaking beams
And haze scratched windows that peeling paint shrouds.
With a dry grasp on the gate of my dreams
This dreamless sky won’t wait for me to sleep
As first indigo then azure break the hold
Of the stars and the night’s all numbered sheep
That scatter in the dawn’s weary rust and gold.
This unwanted vigil miserably kept
To no satisfaction. I wish I had slept.