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Oh-dark-thirty

The watchman's eye quavers like a just-

plated Jell-O salad. The Armalite-calloused

finger silences the alarm--not to the fray,

but to situps, closet, mess. There is a time

that is too early for the ever-faithful, when a few

of the proud choose dreams over duty. Against

the din and flashing red numbers, his mind

forgets the graven tags sleeping

upon his smooth chest. Even this

drowsy mutiny restates his purpose: how terrible

it is to be shaken from sleep.