8 PM

It's eight o'clock in the evening.

My uncle is downstairs,

brewing coffee 

and frying eggs.

I stand on the top step, 

confused, 

anticipating something 

that isn't coming.

I wish that, as my nose indicates,

I had the day ahead of me. 

But I peer out the window

and realize,

that I can only look forward

to sleep. 

Why can't the real morning

motivate me so?