3 am blues

The clock strikes 3. The night stretches languorously like a black cat. Scarlet capillaries sprout over the whites of my eyes like an exotic fungus on accelerated growth hormone. And I think. I think of life eluding me like a lithe and cunning brute, too clever to be snared by a hunter of ordinary skill. I think of a clean bed. I think of my wife. I think of tea. And the clock hands move past 3, one spastic jerk at a time.