3am

And the house is sleeping fitfully

The pine table and chairs in slumber deep
The bed cannot settle
And the dark corners are restless
The oak beams dream woody adventures from before our time
And a thin-limbed spider puzzles over the nature of porcelain

The clock
Whose tick-tocking is at odds
Tries to keep up

But we are not asleep
You have a finger down your throat
Bringing up the angel
Whose horse you feel is the culprit

And light
Unusually awakened
Stares, as if finding itself in a strange room for the first time
Momentarily bewildered
Its small buzzy followers summoned
to share an unexpected feast