Philip Memmer

Psalm    

It's good to know, here in the dim
    of 3:00 AM, that you
         are here with me,

Father, the Prime Insomniac,
    eternally wakeful,
         each of your nights

a dark night of the soul, each soul
    a separate worry
         you dwell upon

fitfully, the old dog snoring
    beneath your bed, your wife
         stealing the sheet.

How thankful I am, now, to have
    one life, its many gaffes
         so absurdly

private. When I think of the words
    you must regret—not one,
         even for you,

can be unsaid—when I think of
    the scale of your would-haves
         and shouldn't-haves—

which for all I know includes me,
    all of us, every
         last blessed thing

a trouble you could easily
    have saved yourself, given
         more endlessness

to really think it all through—then
    how strange the last stars seem
         in the heavens

that are not (thank you) the Heaven
    of the angels but just
         a single sky

sluggishly starting to brighten.
    You stare at the small clock.
         Down the hallway

of your unreckonable house,
    in the countless bedrooms
         of your countless

children, our dreams are only now
    beginning to end...
         You listen close

for the first shut door to open.