just after one

past midnight

eric clapton said

we should

let it all hang out

but i find this hour is better suited

for making two slices of toast

with butter and blackberry jam,

a flirtation with the breakfast that will come

in just few hours, with conversation and hot coffee.



for now it's just me

and bread

and butter and jam

with what feels like

a whole city sleeping and silent below

a whole city sleeping and silent.

whole but sleeping.

so yes, it's me, alone

past midnight

just after one, really,

and I'm buttering bread,

spreading jam, awake.



at this hour, it's just

the tartness of the blackberries,

the muted clank of the knife

against the plate, a napkin

balled up with errant crumbs.

in the glow of a single living room light,

just after one, a meal.

I thought it was solitude,

until this.