Featured Poem

Late Night

Craig Kirchner

Insomnia and I decide to get up

and check out some late-night TV.

It’s a mutual decision, but he gets credit for the idea.

I’m going to have a coffee, hazelnut,

and he’s down with the 12-year-old bourbon, neat.

He just couldn’t get comfortable,

and I was struggling with the bad knees.

He tells me I should get them replaced,

compares them to the week-old bread on the counter,

and the dishwasher that just went up.

We very seldom see eye to eye,

perhaps because he’s often hard to look at.

I wanted to watch a Ken Burns documentary,

he’s pushing for a Soprano’s binge,

something that could keep us up for days.

I beat him at Gin, but I think he lets me.

He loves when we think of something to write about,

always suggests we scribble, then rewrite.

He never seems to have any ideas or input,

says it’s not his job to interfere.

When we lay back down, he gets creative,

We need to discuss the big moments,

relive the details as best we can,

and he justifies that strategy by explaining,

We’ve been here for over 40 million moments.

When we’re ready to call it a day,

we need to play those top two dozen oldies,

keep putting quarters in the juke until

we get through all the greatest hits,

start with that blonde in the eighth grade.

When up, I need to start getting him to help out.

If he can’t suggest a line or a metaphor,

he could empty that new dishwasher he’s impressed with,

do a load of laundry. If I could talk him into walking the dog,

I might be able to get back to sleep.

Originally appeared in Glacial Hills Review, 2024.