N is for Night, the quiet, later, at nine’s stroke, when the television chatters in another room, mutely. N is for forgotten Names. N is for Novel, leafed pages, later, the cat napping, when our author increases the underlying suspense, silently. N is for ridiculous Numbers. N is for Never, the thought, sometimes, at drowsy shut-eye, that the day today will never repeat, thankfully. N is for sleepy Notes. O is for Orange, the line, early, of first light, when our alphabets yes resume amid habitual chance, familiarly. O is for Order, the amusing rightness of eccentric February, ordinary Sunday.