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.

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