I love the mornings and I hate the nights.
I rise before the solar light
has reached the sky, before the race
to cut a deal has turned the grace
of silence into noise, the horns,
the brakes, the angry shouts of scorn.
I rise as all my neighbors sleep.
I don't know what it is that keeps
me thinking of the past, a time
when poverty was not a crime
(since buying now defines the man
and life is an installment plan).
I know this longing has no use,
this melancholy no excuse.
Who thought the blessing of old age
would be to miss a future page
on which is written terrible news
of suffering and paying dues?
You couldn't pay me to be young.
The race is run. The songs are sung.
I love the mornings, and I hate the nights.
