Blue Hour
The last late rain-scaled light has swum
along the office wall.
An aggrieved
mosquito-whine of all you’ve not achieved
needles. But your pen’s aphasic.
Each hypnotic tick
of keyboard pecked by finger
only deepens torpor.
Sleep you’ve skimped
drapes its limp
gauze across your focus.
You yawn, procrastinate,
succumb, drawn downward
into an abyss
of click-bait,
the screen a lamp
you cannot brush the charred
moths of your attention from.
It’s too late for caffeine,
too …
