in the quiet of the night
Roald Dahl told him it was the witching hour
when nothing moved
and those sleepless ageless moved freely
he hadn’t tried to stay awake
he promised
but there the clock blinks
and blinks
it had stopped showing numbers
some time ago
he couldn’t tell you
on account of the clock
he’d been measuring time in rolls
he was on one hundred seventy
if that means anything to you
and then there was a gentle tap.
tap.
tap.
“hello?” he asked of the night
“Hello.” the night answered.
“You should be asleep right now.” it continued. “Do you know what time it is?”
“no.” and he pointed, “my clock isn’t sure either.”
“What is keeping you awake?” the night seemed concerned, if a bit gusty.
the boy shrugged, “too many things.”
the night took this in, the boy’s ragged eyes, gaunt features.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“what makes you so sure?”
“Nothing.”
the boy shook his head. “you’re not that helpful you know.”
“I know,” said the night, gust gone from its words.
and the two sat for a while
until sunrise chased the night away.
