Riposte to a Poem (The Night Worker)

I am a creature of twilight

and I work by night.

The night worker.

I wake with the winking 

of the daylight

as the husk of day shivers

down to its last coils 
of luminescence.

We live in the brief

burst of light, the slot

between the nine-to-five's 

finishing and where I

arise. Call it four o'clock,

where the light is softly 
dimming down

to match the pastel colour

of your rose cheek.

I work beneath neon lamp,

neon light rippling 

my hi-vis-yellow back,
in the stock yard, from my cab.

I take my tea whilst most

are drifting down to

their delta deep:

I don't sleep,

I eat: I'm eating

dreams.

I work through morning's rising,

greet that old friend

whom is always surprised

at my gazing to His

easterly birthing,

His slow emerging

from the pocket of night,

from the womb of space.

I punch out at six

and shoulder my bag,

leaving for home. 
From hereon it's a race
to peace, to you - to 
sleep. I get in at

seven and

ascend to heaven

up the stairs

to you sleeping, me unaware

that I've disturbed you from your dreams.

But now you bequeath on me

the colours of your sun

that has risen with you 
from your winks

into the room. You smile from the pillow

where your dreamy head makes its recess,

calling me to bless the patch

beside you

where you lay to rest.

I'm stripped down to my chest

and make waves into the folds

into that cotton sea where froth

the foams of distant oceans.

You cradled on my arm,

me enveloped in your caress,

we huddle to the hush

of the water's lullaby shush; sink,

to bottom out in inky black,

before the evening calls me back.