Ode to the Underslept

I've never thought myself
a poet
but if the Beatles can compose
high on LSD
then maybe I can manage
on four hours' sleep.
This is for the insomniacs,
the overworked assistants,
the regretful garbage people who
shriek by
at five-oh-seven in the morning--
but mostly for
the mothers
who work three jobs,
refuse to give up on that
math assignment
even though it's after ten,
and still love their children
enough to kiss them
kiss them
kiss them
after rocking
rocking
rocking
until five-oh-six.