If Days Were Blackjack Each Night I Would Bust

Gloaming is the harbinger of nightfall.

And since 10th grade, 8pm has been my hour

of reckoning. After Eight, I’ve said

so many times, and meant after nightfall.

I’m saying it now and it’s not even night.

I know what’s coming, and yet I don’t.

Night sets in like a fever.

Previously published by Right Hand Pointing (Issue 96, March 2016)