Dawns when I can’t sleep I walk,
in thought, all the way
My father loved Thoreau, I wish
he could have walked there
with me once,
my hungover Virgil. Lying in bed
with a big ax
lodged in my head, I still hear him
as if from the next room
bumping into things and cursing.
Give us this day, he mutters,
our daily stone. Nice.
Can’t blame him, though. This morning
can’t sleep for missing him.