Counting sloths

The epiphany comes
when the sun’s gone down
and the tide turns in my sleep,
how deep this ocean where I play
and wait for day to come.
Burnt too many bridges
drunk too much wine
wasted so much time
on the little things.
Why does the finger of fate
finger me?
why does it poke such fun?
how deep the ocean where I play
and wait for the day to come.
If it’s neither here and it isn’t there,
mediocre rather than rare
where am I and does anyone care?
I stare long and hard
which isn’t too long
and not
such a hard thing to do.
an epiphany at
ten to three
shortly after two
is the ocean that wide
that I cannot hide and
wait for the day
with you.
We stand counting sloths
behaving like moths
attracted to the flame.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.