just after one

past midnight
eric clapton said
we should
let it all hang out
but i find this hour is better suited
for making two slices of toast
with butter and blackberry jam,
a flirtation with the breakfast that will come
in just few hours, with conversation and hot coffee.

for now it's just me
and bread
and butter and jam
with what feels like
a whole city sleeping and silent below
a whole city sleeping and silent.
whole but sleeping.
so yes, it's me, alone
past midnight
just after one, really,
and I'm buttering bread,
spreading jam, awake.

at this hour, it's just
the tartness of the blackberries,
the muted clank of the knife
against the plate, a napkin
balled up with errant crumbs.
in the glow of a single living room light,
just after one, a meal.
I thought it was solitude,
until this.