Babe Ruth

It's midnight again,
and the cat who is in
heat wants in, apparently
she's had enough for
one night, so I lift
the screen and she jumps
onto the couch,
runs to wherever it is
that she goes to at this
hour, but I can't
fall asleep after a long
afternoon nap with the
window open and the cool
november air blowing
in, and so I wander
about the house finding
magazines to browse.
I'm halfway through
a dozen New Yorkers, stuck
in the middle of all
the fiction, and disdaining
nearly every poem.
I go online and see
nothing of interest,
no one I need to
communicate with.
Nothing I need to buy.
I open mail, all the mail,
junk and bills, nothing
good. I look in the
fridge and move some
jars around and find
nothing. I'm not in
the mood for celery,
or peanut butter. So
I hit the couch, flick
on the television. I
find a show about orphans
and how they cope. It
makes me wish that I
was an orphan and had
that kind of get up
and go. They lead such
energetic and rosey
lives. I'd be asleep
perhaps, or maybe not.
They all want to find
out who their real
parents were, which is
understandable. But
I yell at the t.v.
and say don't, stop it,
block it out and move
on, you don't need to
know. I'm on the edge
of my couch worrying
about them, what
they might find. I then
remember that Babe Ruth,
the legendary baseball
player was an orphan.
All of this suddenly
makes me tired, very
tired and now at last
I feel that I can sleep.