The light is above porches or
streaming out of windows,
the illuminated television turned down low as to not wake up the parents
(or the children).
A stray flashlight is carried with blue batons,
dancing around in the pitch and puddles,
waiting, watching for any disturbance.
"We don' wan' any trughble 'round here"
ol' timeys in charge of the police force would say.
I bet I could read about me in the reports in the Outlook, if I wanted.
And Gresham! Lo Gresham!
She turns off at the drop of a hat. She's a gateway
to the East!
and to A&W
and to the Mormon Temple...
But she shuts her eyes in hope that a bagel store will open open them,
or an office complex on Stark.
All hopes, she says,
but tonight, I was not rambling with Joseph in the center of streets,
no we were not Boogie Eyes
like my mother, in her yore days,
I was alone,
or as alone as possible.
All the Mom and Pop Rite-Aids and coffee shops have a light on in front,
reminding you that you are not alone,
that How could you think you were alone?
that You are confronted with opportunity!
that How could you think such a thing?
No one is sleeping, it seems, the boroughs do not turn off,
the crowds shift from one building,
from one business shirt
top buttoned and belt looped
to unbuttoned and belt loosed.
The night is a dazzle, or would be if I was north twenty-odd blocks.
There is no facing the faceless many,
the hurried bunch,
for it's pleasant to hear "Run Forrest,"
because some languages translate fluidly.
Endorphins have done me a load of good
to not forget things like this.
1 comment:
I appreciate your poetry.
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