After-Hours Crunch

The clock strikes twelve

A quiet rumble deep inside

In the shadows of the hallway I tread on creaking wooden floors

Guided by the pale white beacon

Of the refrigerator door The shelf reveals the prize I seek

No willpower left, the spirit weak

Midnight feast in the cold kitchen light

Leftovers calling me into the night A symphony of silver and glass

The hunger will pass!

Cold pizza! Microwave

countdown begins! (ahhhh)

Full at last

The hunger fades to sleep (hummmm)