Friday afternoon; the workweek not
gone
But fading. Other music is
imagined
And begins to play. A shadow
listens;
Beckons to other shadows who
follow
Down an alley that vanishes.
Ghosts shake themselves, gain
substance
Conjure themselves into being.
Three in the morning; the night
Is just a little thin at the
edges
Stretching itself to last until
morning
Decides to come. The hour is not
ungodly;
There are all too many gods
about
Who’ll not be seen by daylight.
Look – surely that is Great Pan
Rummaging for deposit bottles;
Three cats are debating in an
alley
The fate of the unborn day.
Love is not here; she left a
note
Painted on a brick wall.
A house light snaps on; Death
Has had a bad dream.
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