Two Poems at 3 AM

Yesterday’s Pocketful of Pretend

“Promising title”
Says his therapist,
Wanting him
To stay
In the moment,

Not trusting
The title or
The lines to
Really have
Changed
Much,

Knowing
It would take
More than a
Few clever words

To wake him
From his
Comfortable
Numbness,
His fiction
He calls a life,
His now.

———————————-

The Night Growth

Poetry grows
best at night
like the hair on my face —
only to be cut short
every morning
by the light
in the bathroom.

Time to grow
a beard. Time
to harvest
the night growth.

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