Five

Not late anymore. Not morning yet — an hour the day forgets to count. The window is cool the way windows are before the sun does its small work on them. A car, somewhere far — not the first of the day, but the last of the night, losing its sound to the long avenues. The kettle keeps to itself. The book is open at the page I gave up on an hour ago. I have been awake long enough that nothing about being awake is news to me. The hour passes. The room keeps me.