Of all my poems, this is my favorite. I think it would even rank above 'west hill' - one I wrote many years ago, but no longer have. I remember being quite pleased with it, but somehow managed to lose the only existing copy shortly after it was finished. Now only the last line: "for I awoke on the west hill." remains to taunt me for the rest of my days...
two a.m.
soft whirring of the ceiling fan
only crickets hold the silence at bay
in the darkness outside
the faint yellow light
leaking from the kitchen window.
unmindful, night moves toward morning,
August toward September,
as if busy with other concerns.
innocent of remembering, I was tenth out of nine
and left to make sense of it all.
who knows why I scratch for these moments
with no phone ringing
and might-have-been friends trading polite but distant words?
in the white glow my fingers struggle to reply
still tenth out of nine.
© 2003 Lance Gallup
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