reading 4 am the Window by Tony Birch, I want to call him on the phone, let the poet know…

restless after a bout of strange dreams
drinking hot chocolate reading
poetry by a writer acclaiming
sweet light of early mornings

I want to call him on the phone
let the poet know I know
but don't have his number
and who knows if he would answer
having been dead for decades

a mouse scuttles across the floor
(we avoid eye contact)
the garbos wake the street
disposing of all I cannot fathom