With strained eyes from lit up screens
He viewed his reflection, or so what it seemed
The blood shot eyes, the tussled hair
The white shirt, socks, and underwear

At 4 A.M, he had no more to drink
All the bottles were empty
Every sound was a shriek

At 4. A.M, all was left to do
Was to hold his own hand, and pretend it was you

At 4 A.M, he painted his face
He dressed up in pearls
And he danced through his place

At 4 A.M, he was safe to dream
To think of a world
With no shaving cream.


His fathers voice,
The santa of his youth,
His emotional rock,
His wisdom tooth

Would see him like this, then kiss the wedding band.
“I just don’t get this. I just don’t understand.”


But Dad, he says,
You say the world is tough, and I know that
I know that I am enough.