3 O'clock

The lights go out in my dream.
And I lie there awake in the dark.
3:15 blinks red on the orange
crate next to my bed.
A mouse skitters across the floor;
the house groans.
Hot milk scalds; sheep bleat;
their sheep voices
itching and chafing.
Headlights slice the darkness; a
night stalker in search
of lemon chicken. I'm hongry!
I conjure up my barber's
soft, gentle hands.
I pay her extra.
Like a schoolboy, I rehearse
the presidents: Washington,
Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe.
No, not Marilyn.
The red-eyed clock flashes 3:25.
Maybe some music: The Artist
ululating "Purple Rain;" John
Lennon imagining life without Paul.
A spector looms up out of the night
in come-stained boxers: my ambition,
dragging chains like Marley's ghost.
The blood-shot numerals drip 3:35!                                   Mystery Writer