It’s a song for the night. The slow
creep of a high tide as the last car heads
for the next town. Wayside diners
and broken hearts gather on empty
at a desert gas station. Someone reads
The Howl out loud; it’s the fear and the
dreams we live up to. Steel mills steam
alive with workers. Bus driver’s work
the road.
The story holds curious eyes tight.
Imagination releases the shadows from
behind the curtains; cast to the floor like
exhausted dancers. The clubs cool overnight.
Horns and drums fold over like flowers.
Late hour hungry souls work at unanswered
puzzles. Searching. Leaning for direction.
Someone locks the door. A single alley light
reminds us what remains from day.
Roger Singer 