Before the sun rises
And the dew begins to flee,
My monitor and my files,
They call and beckon me.
The internet, the work, the unpaid bills --
Somehow working with them all
Clears out the predawn webs
With which my mind is filled.
Oh, I have an agenda; there are, after all,
Things to be done!
Must balance that account, check the e-mail,
But before the soft light, reason doesn't often
Fantasy and promise seem to dwell in the
Promises of who I could be
If I could just stay in the twilight.
A blinking cursor,
A loading page,
A whirring hard drive
All exist on a non-existent page.
Millions are made by/for/on these beige machines,
Yet in the morning,
Before the sun,
It feels alone,
Not all that fun.
So off I go with a poem
Sending it into cyberspace
For someone else to dwell upon.
You never know, after all,
Who finds value in something so small
As non-existent word on a non-existent page
from a non-existent man
in a small room off the hall.