Nothing good happens after 2am.
Freight trains rattle the roads,
shaking plates and stirring dogs.
Streetlights blink a hazy yellow.
Everything appears closed.
Neon signs sleep. Doors are locked against
the wrong keys. A black cat stares at a garbage
can shadow. City buses have yielded themselves
to the station. Thieves and robbers speak in
whispers of what’s here and there. A light
breeze rustles a flag. Yesterday’s newspaper
finds rest in the gutter. The back door of the
diner shuts. The owner walks the alley to home.
He scuffs along with untied shoes. His apron
still attached. A dog takes notice of his passing.
The man smells like steak and eggs.
Roger Singer 