night waits for the last eye of a house
to close, that last light in a room to darken
but no more, I sit up, wait for dawn
wait for the street sweeper to pass Main
I burn the candle wick, burn the street light,
burn the little rays that poke through
the windows, I say “what are you doing up
it’s time for the shadows shift'
then the birds come, the sun comes and
the people come, in windows, out doors
on sidewalks, by bus, by car, by train
stomp and chase the shadows gone
and life sounds like a broken song, some-
times I catch myself singing it, shake it off
light a cigarette, wait for the street sweeper
wait for when the world pulls the plug
I'm waiting for the plug too, the plug that powers ON. You're hinting at the next poem already... Great descriptive reflections. Rgds, Ivan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
lithesome poetry, Ben.