Roger Singer

Day sheds its skin. The low bass

of time moves daylight to its end.

Streets open their hands to my

arms and feet.

Low light. Last light puddles.

Dusk coughs a last breath.

Night paints faces with shadows.

Windows shut. Whispers find corners

where promises are broken.

Hats tip and collars rise. A cool breeze

ushers in a song of night and voices.