Roughly idling on caffeine fumes, my stifled yawn presents another
Distraction from the work at hand.
The oldies station keeps churning out those half-remembered tunes, from long ago
When four men from Liverpool formed a band.
The second hand draws lazy arcs; my supply of midnight oil is running low.
A tired and wandering mind is not conducive to productivity;
The going is slow.
My eyes, losers in the stare-down with my enemy the screen, rebel.
First a flicker, then a blink blink.
How am I supposed to think?
The world at three is the surreal parallel
Dimension alternate to the world I see by day,
Peopled by those who enjoy the zombie state
Or otherwise engage in questionable activity.
As for me, my brain is clay;
I guess it went beyond its use-by date.