Hours engorged with pizza, the third
night in a row, washed down with
Dr. Pepper because I want my lips sweet.
They grow stale anyhow. They run themselves
tired, the poor things. They are worn jump-ropes
slapping the pavement out of sheer boredom.
Except nothing is boring.
Only the night slows down,
and it has nothing to do with you,
though my mind sure could smile for a little while.
But the clock warps into an A-bomb grin,
and voices scream into my face
every time I size up another math problem,
and begin.
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