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Awake
Three a.m.
the air-conditioning drones in the neighbor’s window,
the rain is mostly over,
the roads are wet.
It drizzles more,
and I sit,
a ghost
with my computer
wondering why I don’t just go to bed
and
my eyes fill with tiredness
as I absorb the glow
and realize
it’s Wednesday.
by Kathleen Moll
Read the story behind this poem
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