I had to be ready. Even though I wasn’t going to be doing anything tomorrow—
no need to get out to shop—not anticipating crossing the planet on a mission of sorrow,
I nevertheless understood I needed my sleep. For what?
I wasn’t even going to weep. Nothing to manage or borrow.
I might listen to the cat scratching, as could happen at night—scratch, scratch, scratch—as well as during the day.
The sun will not fool me. The day could hardly be said to be that. Tonight might as well stay.
Yet I knew I had to be ready. Ready, at least, for my aches and pains.
Ready for a day of thinking. Ready for a softly closing of windows if it rains.
Ready to be happy, having slept at last.
Sleep now—even as a pretty child, old man!
Ridiculous. I worry too much. Is the play in my head over? Must I greet the cast?
I was always getting ready. Thinking was enough to weary. And prepare.
Thinking was always that old man (me) in the corner over there.
It was always coming to this. Merely to be ready. Ready for what, I don’t know.
My bed, as usual, is ready for poetry. A knack I have for thoughts. Thoughts most happy and slow.