Fred Aiken Writing

looking out the window at 5am and wondering why I’m up

why am I working today

of all days

why can’t I go back to sleep

why can’t these people make their own coffee

why can’t I have a moments rest

from all the noise

all the sugar pouring out each breath

and screaming children lining up for more and more

until my death

each latte wearing me down

one more day

caffeinated from start to finish

when coffee no longer has an effect

but underscores what I’m to expect

tired, broken, weary to the touch

while all I want is sleep