This is to myself

A phone call comes
It asks
“What has changed since last night?”
“Five, fresh new hours of sleep,” I say
For sure
I could say more, like
“Also that half hour of crying
And then again
But mostly trying
And failing
At two thirty at the dining table
In the sodium light
That comes through the window
And muddies the purple of the tablecloth.”
“You don’t sound too sunny.”
The phone call goes away
Not knowing half
How cloudy I am

Is my proudest accomplishment then this:
Atheism?
"There you god fearing fucks – you lose, I win!"
From the top of my cynic hill
I could shout down
From the top of my rising escalator
I could shout down
Shout them down
Show them

The morning has gone by
And I need a nap
Because I tire easily
Need my quicksand bed
To devour me
For I lay awake till four
Sparring with her snores, my thoughts
I slept then
and when I woke
I could not remember my dreams

Another call
“What do you want to do tonight?”
“Eat something, please.”
“Fine, Lebanese then!”
I am happy again.

This then is for me
A poem. My third
Of the kind written seriously
That makes it out in one piece
Begins honest, an oceanic memo maybe
Perceptive and impressive
But ends, ends up like this
Yes, sorry. I know.