Three Thirty

It’s three thirty on a saturday morning
Moonlight slips through the blinds
patterning horizontal prison bars in the bedroom
and the evening plods on.

Even three thirty and a weekend
holds some fear, of the darkness
even though sleep beckons in the bedroom
as the evening morphs to mourning.

At three thirty,
the apartments are silent
the revelers have gone home, slipped to their bedrooms
and mourning will break.

And at three-thirty-one
the first tentative cries
of the mourning dove, echos in the bedroom
Mourning has broken.