padre at three a.m.

Ejecting self from bed in frolic lark,
his Grace has grazed the table, felled the clock
that lies from impact handless, still and stark.
Its face, glass horse of combat, mirrors shock
as Padre counts his chins, deplores the crock
of idle smiles that, nihilistic, swim
like socks beneath his bedlam bed-and-gym
where nightmares run their race around his eyes
with their taunt tales asphyxiating him.
This nightly turmoil makes him weak not wise.