It’s mid-November,
middle of the night;
can’t seem to sleep,
can’t turn on the light.
Tossing and turning,
not wearing a stitch;
ceiling fan’s spinning,
I grope for the switch.
Trade winds are calm,
no hint of a breeze;
window’s wide open,
feels like 80 degrees.
The fan now at max,
I get up out of bed;
walk to the kitchen,
no tho’ts in my head.
I’m not really hungry,
but now fully awake;
too early for breakfast,
3 am, for God’s sake!
Milk glass with wine,
to help make me sleep;
the entrée is meatloaf,
too aged now to keep.
Moonlit still waters,
silhouettes of palms;
bedtime in Key West,
I’m up writing psalms.