At three am, everything is different. The skyline floats
on the east river while the emperor looms dark and silent.
Nothing means what it did when sleep fills your throat.
You can’t remember how you got to this place, your coat
lost on 2nd avenue where you heard someone asking for a cent
at three am. Somehow, everything is different and the skyline floats
into hazy blues and amber above your head, a ghost
amongst ghosts, seeking asylum.
They whisper, nothing means what it did, and sleep fills your throat.
You once needed help crossing these streets, but you’ve since outgrown it.
When your mother calls you ignore it, all you need is the quiet
of three am, when everything is different. The skyline floats
in the reflection of a corner store window approached
only by kindred souls in need of a cigarette.
Nothing means what it did when the smoke fills your throat.
Tomorrow you will wake, look in the mirror and note
the sand in your eyes and the dirt under your fingernails. You’ll say, at your wisest,
when its three am, everything is different. The skyline will float
and nothing will mean what it did when the sleep coats your throat.