Up Late

Tower of papers to read,
The New York Times
lying in state since Sunday
and then the bills
cry out to be paid;
a pile of files moan
put us away in alpha order
which I will
after I unload the dishes,
set up my morning coffee
and rinse the cat’s dish.
I notice the counter,
sticky and smudged —
I must wipe it
so tomorrow will begin clean.
A dirty dishcloth reminds me
there’s laundry to start,
and I go back upstairs
where the files are still whining
their high-pitched pleas
so I put them away, correcting
some errors in alphabetizing,
then grab the wash
along with the smelly dishcloth
and take it to the basement
which I hate late at night,
so I run, two steps at a time,
up to the kitchen
and turn out the lights
before climbing the stairs,
entering the bathroom
where I brush, floss, wash
trying hard not to reorganize
the cabinet where the bandaids
are out of place
and the rubbing alcohol
is where the deodorant should be.
Then I look at the clock:
how did it get this late?
(my standard nocturnal question),
but instead of answering it
I check the computer one more time:
there is a line I need to change
in a poem,
then email, the weather,
my bank balance, a recipe
and what was that word I read today,
the one I did not know?
Oh yes, it was peregrination
which means a meandering journey.
I get up
and say it out loud
as I walk toward my bed:
my peregrination for the night is over.
It is now time to lie down,
shut my eyes
and hope that as the sun rises
I will feel ready for the day
and of course, the night
when I will promise myself
to turn in earlier
and resist the urge
to research nocturnal animals
like bats, raccoons and hedgehogs
who also roam
or peregrinate
in the darkest hours
of the night