5 A.M

When you shut off the alarm,
because you are already awake,
it makes a noise,
an irritating chirp like some horrific
electronic nuisance bird
and you rub my back
or the curve of my ass to wake me up.
You say my name softly.

I fumble for my glasses,
my stomach growls, possibly hungry
possibly sorry about the extra scotch last night.

You feed the cats.
I turn on the computers.
It is 5 am.

We move chairs,
scraping the hardwood floor.
The teapot whistles.
The computers buzz.

We open windows.
It is 5 am.

Last night, making the last drink
you reminded me that 5 am would come quickly.
As it always does.
I asked out loud, not to you, per say, but out loud
“Why do we keep doing this?”
Why do we get up at 5 am,
to sit in front of this screen.
Every morning.
Where do we think it’s going to get us?
And you answered, even though you didn’t have to,
since we both know that it is just
What We Do.

I wondered to myself what other people do,
for a minute,
but only a minute,
before closing the window
and shuffling down the hall to bed.