No one in this house is awake.
No one writing poetry.
No one writing.
No one awake in bed.
No one begging for sleep.

Am I begging?
Am I ready to cave, to quit?
Am I ready to flip the switch
down, lay in darkness,
set an alarm?

No one is setting an alarm.

Should I keep writing?
No one is writing.

Should I stretch?
No one is stretching.

Why don’t I care enough?
Am I still competitive?
Am I still that overachieving
child, distraught over less-than-perfect?
Am I still afraid of not being the best?

No one is afraid of not being the best.

No one is readjusting their glasses.
No one is listening for the neighbor’s
return on his Yamaha.
No one is watching Khooba
twitch as he dreams.

Why am I?

They can’t all be winners.