Baby, Well It's 3AM, I Must Be Lonely
Robert Beveridge
 

it is not a knock on the door
so much as it is the bite
of an axe into the side of a birch
and the cat sits on my side
of it and yells 'go away'
in feline. not that that helps.
o, the grand totality of wakefulness
summoned by an asshole
at a front door. nothing for it
but to get up, pour out the avalanche
of the morning pharmacy,
take each handful with a few
big swallows. feed the cat.
recite the incantations. scramble
some eggs. see where it goes.