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.




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