I lay awake at 3am.
I have solved most of the world’s problems,
written a bestselling novel,
rehashed conversations where I responded wittier,
Rambo-ed my way through thugs and miscreants,
stopped crime waves with my dam of back fists and roundhouse kicks,
wondered if the squirrels nesting in the crawlspace above our garage will eat their way through the ceiling
to come plunging down on my face.
I wake up 2 hours later, drool dried on my cheek.
I remember vaguely that once I was a genius and a superhero.
I find my way to a cup of coffee that slops onto my pajamas
as I trip over the cats.