Irrational

On Sunday night, you can find me empty in my full room.

Head cocked, half leaning on the arm of my chair,

Listening to the mechanical birdsong of my alarm clock.

The Greeks said something about this, or maybe that was the psychiatrist I saw when I was ten.

When the sun comes up in an hour forty-five, 

I’ll rip this page out of my notebook and put it on the floor with all the other ones.

That’s how I’m paving my world of angles and bumps and corners

And even though I’m driven half mad by the other people who can’t see it

I know someday I’ll find a way to make them.