  Yesterday morning, early, sometime around 4, sober and tired, I stumbled up the stairs to my room. All I wanted to do was sleep, and yet that little writer tick in my head had other ideas. One other idea, actually.
The funny thing, was that I kept thinking that predawn July, at home and fed at my parents' home was no time to be lamenting. Add to that, I don't really have a person to lament. I've had a string, hell, a lifetime of 23 years, worth of more bad than good relationships, and yet I've lost that one true lament. Maybe it's a sign that I've become to cynical, if that's even possible for a writer. But, so, there I was in bed with this sense of lament in my mind, and I knocked out this poem.
Only after that, and, well, this rather lengthy introduction, could I sleep. That was twenty hours ago. And now, here for your enjoyment, is my poem. <> Cold December Mornings Are Out Of Season in July <>I’m getting better at getting over; Moving along nicely towards moving on. I think you’d be pleased to know That I finally got around to Fixing flaws and patching holes. Yeah, that’s right. I’m finally crossing things off Your Tolstoy-length list of Honey-Do-Self-Improvements, The same ones you quoted in your letter Like a Mississippi preacher from the Good book.
Back when times- Well, they weren’t so good, but We had our laughs, and we Had our tears and now… Well, I keep looking over my shoulder, Just hoping to see you standing there, To see you seeing me, to see Me moving forward. I’ve got promise, promise I do. And thoughts like this are better saved For Thursday Mornings in December- They’re just so damn out of season in July. From my bed it’s hard to turn. Oh, believe me, I do Just to find an empty mattress. And I’m supposed to see potential Where nothing lays to block my path.
But objects at rest and so forth.
I’ve got promise, promise I do.
And thoughts like this one are better saved For Thursday mornings in December They’re just so damn out of season in July. 
