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“When Sleep Won’t Come”

Four in the morning, harassed
by squirrels or worse
squealing in the back woods
as they ravage
over scarce food, mates, dens
or perhaps because of
that other raw need
I’ve felt myself
in the middle of the night–
an urge to be
as cruel to the silence
as silence can be
.to witnesses who wake to
what’s missing.
Five in the morning
and a newspaper assaults
my front door,
its first page clawed
by headlines from
Iraq and Korea.
Some innocent will still be
missing something
for the rest of the day.
But those wild ones
have quieted,
now that spoils are taken
and at least one
loser decided.
by Therese L. Broderick

About ThereseLBroderick

Independent community poet living in Albany, New York USA.

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