At 7:23 A.M.
when my eyes creak open
to a window full of bright blue
Carolina sky,
then droop-doze-close,
to pop open to
gray clouds and drizzle
and my bed-side death-reminder
tock-ticks its admonition:

“Ken!
Get up!
It’s 10:36 A.M.!
One eighth of this day
passed in a blink.
That fraction of the mere score
of years left to you
wasted in a snore,
like gold doubloons
buried on a beach-waved-shore!”

I think,
“I’d best sleep no more,
till the Reapers scythe
has lain me down,
a sheaf of grain
in green pastures,
besides still waters.
Then, time enough to sleep,
but, not before.”