At 4 a.m. I wake up to the truth

sitting on the couch in his pajamas

reading the newspaper. He has curly hair.

I know, who knew?

                                         I start to wake my wife

and say, hey, guess who’s here, but I don’t

want to seem provincial, as if I’ve never

I gaze at the muskmelon of a setting moon,

discovering that it’s the truth, too, and

were I a squirrel, the truth would manifest

with yellowed incisors and a bushy tail.