01-11-2011, 07:17 PM
After work, he always sits
By his kitchen window.
Outside, It’s winter. The sun
Sinks into a hammock
Of oaks and rusted fire;
It tries to keep itself alive-
Resisting death like
A child resists bedtime.
But that tantrum is too tiring.
It resigns, secretly at peace
He smiles.
To him, it’s satisfaction.
Minutes later, blackness.
Below, streetlights direct ghosts-
Their green-yellow-reds
Now meaningless; the language
Of a vanished race.
He collects his coat
and steps out into the city.
It’s not too cold, so tonight
He’ll walk as far as the park.
He looks upward; the moon
Is a broken monocle
Glowing with sagacious light.
It’s odd. Weeks ago, it was Christmas-
Wires woven onto windows,
Bulbs illuminating snow-
It almost makes you forget
That the moon exists at all.
The park is a white carpet
Crowded with fern trees.
Even late at night,
It’s the only place
That escapes the city.
No man is an island,
But cities, cities leave you landlocked.
He sits on the bench, thinks
Of the sun. Happy-
That there’s nothing here for him.
He loves nothing; inhabits it
The way a rattlesnake
Cools beneath stone.
Sometimes, he lays in bed;
Pretends he is ascending
Floating higher and higher
Until he becomes a star-
Invisible to even God.
By his kitchen window.
Outside, It’s winter. The sun
Sinks into a hammock
Of oaks and rusted fire;
It tries to keep itself alive-
Resisting death like
A child resists bedtime.
But that tantrum is too tiring.
It resigns, secretly at peace
He smiles.
To him, it’s satisfaction.
Minutes later, blackness.
Below, streetlights direct ghosts-
Their green-yellow-reds
Now meaningless; the language
Of a vanished race.
He collects his coat
and steps out into the city.
It’s not too cold, so tonight
He’ll walk as far as the park.
He looks upward; the moon
Is a broken monocle
Glowing with sagacious light.
It’s odd. Weeks ago, it was Christmas-
Wires woven onto windows,
Bulbs illuminating snow-
It almost makes you forget
That the moon exists at all.
The park is a white carpet
Crowded with fern trees.
Even late at night,
It’s the only place
That escapes the city.
No man is an island,
But cities, cities leave you landlocked.
He sits on the bench, thinks
Of the sun. Happy-
That there’s nothing here for him.
He loves nothing; inhabits it
The way a rattlesnake
Cools beneath stone.
Sometimes, he lays in bed;
Pretends he is ascending
Floating higher and higher
Until he becomes a star-
Invisible to even God.
