Streetlights have yet to be blown out
and the stillness of road signs allow freedom
to night riders. Perched on dimly lit balconies
are night owls – who, in Hugh Hefner gowns,
usher in the new day with hand-rolled
cigarettes. The moon stalks about the night sky
mischievously winking at streetwalkers while
they work their night shifts – moving between johns
like car-to-car salespeople.
The clerks at the convenience store
keep wishing for morning while
the security guards at Gate 1 take turns
being the lookout. The baby at apartment 25
is teething, so his screaming keeps us up. Oh
what a time to be alive, there are no sirens or
drills wringing in the ears – not that a screeching
baby is any different, but it is my dear.
I’ve come to admire the darkness –
its secrets hidden in plain sight. Oh what
a time to be alive. My only plea now is for
these stars to never go out.
RC is a poet still working on his voice.