COUNTING SHEEP

Abandoned newspapers jump into

flight, cartwheeling over the parking lot,

flattened on a fence. Its abstract art

of yesterday’s news; the death of a

soldier, a circled apartment on East 86th

and fifth.

 

A trumpet player joins the wind,

flattening out the notes, falling into

rhythm, welcoming the noise.

 

It’s a night avoiding daylight. Stars appear

to be home, except for hallway moths

jumping to the brightest of lights.

 

Strangers moving through. Truckers

all named Joe. Plenty of coffee creates

shifty eyes. No one’s counting sheep.

 

 

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