Still March

Past eleven.
Were it morning,
it might not matter,
but night’s a story
that should have ended
an hour ago,
slammed shut,
the finality of day done,
an old woman muttering,
“enough is enough.”
But I’m still up.
I’m still writing.
Still trying to wrap my keyboard
around moving words,
the kind that slip between stars
and make you question
whether it’s light, or a plane,
or a UFO, or a memory
of that time you slept in a tent
in your best friend’s back yard
and nearly got hypothermia
because it was still winter.
You’d argued the clocks had turned,
the hour pushed forward,
so surely it must be spring,
and the days must really be longer.
So mom said, “Go ahead.
Go be a dum dum and freeze.”
It was pretty damn dark out there.
It was pretty damn cold out there.
Should have listened to mom.
Should have stayed inside.
Should have gone to bed hours ago,
but then, I wouldn’t be writing.
I’d be dreaming of my mother,
and I’d really rather not.
I miss her.

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