Deficit

Watching shadows
slinking along the ceiling:
sleep ever elusive;

Listening to radio secrets
on old headphones;

Recalling the deep scent of
winter woodsmoke
at the edge of childhood;

Too familiar with
that sweet rich tobacco scent,
longing for it like
the last kiss we ever shared;

Staring far into the night,
wondering,
if morning should come,
will there yet be
a place in it for me?

My old soul
will spend these dark hours
whispering irreverent prayers
and
begging to undo what I’ve done.