If I Were a Poet

Sleep walks the street at 6 AM,
pausing at each window pane.

On the sidewalk, sleeping drunks as hard
as gargoyles sit outside a bar.

Down the main avenue,
past the silent empty stores,
where money sleeps in secret drawers.

On the horizon, a hint of red
announces that the time has come
for his wandering to be done.
Sleep goes home and goes to bed.