11,460. A GIFT AT NIGHT

A GIFT AT NIGHT

Once in my life, before I

die, I've wanted to stay up

all night, writing. A marathon

of self-imposed proportions.

Since I've nothing to do, and

nothing to lose. The words

would flow, in their torrent,

I'd get up now and then, from

sitting, to stretch about or do 

any other thing I chose, and 

sit back down to work some 

more. My exile then would

be my own, and the rest of 

the dregs could all go rot.

Maybe I could count the

sounds I hear too, trains 

and planes. Those sounds

are not ever-present, no,

but they recur a lot. Even,

strangely, the small aircraft

into Linden  -  I figure those

private air flight charters are

probably business guys or

entertainers, coming in or

leaving in their smaller craft.

All through the night the 

roadways are pretty bare, and a

20 minute drive into downtown

is a cinch. Power pays its price,

but it gets where it wants to

go, as well. Not like me,

sitting here, all night.