Saturday, March 26, 2011

The Poetry of Night

Slowly, the day
and it's cacophony
pass by, changing
to silence and
darkness in
uneven increments.
Finally,
grey steel and
beige concrete
become
less a cage
more
vestige of solitude.
The last shouts
and bravado
evaporate
as droplets of water
flee, steam from
a hot forgotten pan.
No more distorted
announcements,
chastening shouts,
or guards
final warnings.
The rhyming,
banging,
pecking,
of new urban music
on hold 'til tomorrow.
Unhiding
my contraband
cardboard desk
and lining up
sharpened bits
of pencils,
too short
to begin with.