The Empty Hours

In the morning hour

When the dew is still untouched

you extend your arm and reach

 high above the spindles to the bed’s end

with quick release

you despise again, the day again

you scold me for the plans

for the dreams I  hold

for the way I smile

by noonday hour

you revel in the existence of your actions

keeping your quota down

reaching to the floor

and grabbing gold

in the midnight hour

you shame me for

the lofty way I grasps my thoughts

and make them real

you are not worth it

you know