Tired of being angry,
I go to bed at Old People Time,
before the middle of the night.
I lie on the edge of thinking,
needles of grass poking
at the back of my arm.

I dread the onset of Dead People Time,
before the television
has closed in for the night.
The memory of red wine
warms
low in my stomach,
coating all the words I ate
during Young People Time.

Sleep comes quickly.