QUIET DOUBTS

Awake to the minor hours
The city sough washes through my window
While I try to drown insomnia in hot tea.
Yesterday sits in my head, a silent curiosity.
It sways uncertainly towards tomorrow,
Ready to tumble towards oblivion
In warm liquid wash, picking at itself
Like a pimply adolescent.
I am sure tomorrow is there
Hiding in the bushes of the new day,
But at the moment, tomorrow,
As distant as Alpha Centaurus,
May not be there at all.
These sleepy minutes
Might be my last. As solid
As this possibility might be,
It seems remote.
Life goes on.