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.