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 as fatigue and I 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.
The restless sky closes the gate of my dreams
And locks out my chance for a sliver of sleep
As first indigo then azure break the hold
Of taunting stars and night’s all numbered sheep,
Scattering in the dawn’s weary rust and gold.
This unwanted vigil miserably kept
To no satisfaction. I wish I had slept.