NIGHT OWL 

Under the night’s shade 

when the family is turned off, 

he is wound up like a toy. Whiles  

away the oldest hours, dancing  

his fingers over the alphabet, dipping  

his eyes into the box’s bright glow. 

When string thins to handle,  

he collapses like a felled tree.  

Pulled up again by frightened keys, 

he startles to feet, creaking the stairs,  

retiring to bed. Trapped inside an  

oxygen machine, sleeping swiftly  

to catch up to his kind, he sings  

a sweet hurricane to his wife.