Monk's Hours

These are the monk's hours. I feel light humming in my abdomen. I wake at three thirty, positive that it is dawn. My palms and soles are burning. I get up. I let my dog out to pee, and I make a pot of tea. I read poems and listen to the sleeping neighborhood hum of fans and air conditioners. I see the centipede in the sink drinking last night's water and I crush it with my shoe and wash the evidence away. I don't believe in friendship anymore.