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Four A.M.

By John I. Blair

All I can think about
Is sleep; in that quest
I lose.

At four a.m.
The only sounds
Are the PC humming,
The furnace blowing,
My ears ringing.

Itís early March;
Spring should be here;
Winter stays.
Despite birds, flowers,
The world is dark.

The people in my life
Are growing few.
Itís all that I can do
To lift a phone
And call those who survive.

Sitting by the bed of one today
I talked inanely
Of books and cats,
Realizing all the while
I shunned the truth.

But this remains:
We can cry alone
Or we can smile
And comfort one another.

I know which I choose.

©2019 John I. Blair, 3/2/2019

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