Fred Aiken Writing

at any given moment, with no warning, without hesitation, little by little,

the creak of the steps give, sway, moan to the weight of meat, sweat, bones,

curled into itself, around itself, bounding for a singular destination

while whistling with sweet nectar spittle crusted at the lip with bits of apple still clinging from an unkempt mustache

as a long, impassable night burrows into an interminable dawn,

with little crows chirping some made-up song they heard on the radio,

while I just try to get some sleep, why won’t it ever come?