Night People

Night people,
the ones who leave my house
when I am sandy-eyed
and much in need of sleep
I take my leave to bed
and they take theirs
to those remaining hours
beconing before the dawn

How can it be and why
does this anamoly exist
This differencing of turned clocks
Habit perhaps, my Pavlov's dogging
of a lifetime early risen
and all those years I dragged myself
from decades of warm beds
unable (unwilling?) now to change

I drop to bed in soundless bliss
scrunched away and tucked
Their leave taken to pubs and conversation
the All-Nighters
lost in threads of theoretical debate
the daylight won't allow
And I hunger for that, jealous
of their aptitude for night, remembering

Yet the days of bull-sessioning are not enough
though I remember their pull on me
and the intensity, the upper with no downer
Would I have it back, perhaps or maybe not
After all, I speak of jealousy and hunger too
but it's there, available
and I have opted out for bed
A Night Person once myself, no more