Not Sorry Poem by Wes Thompson

after hours
I frequent the measured
quarter mile track
that traces the circumference of
a small neighborhood park
usually around 1: 00am
I make my rounds
this evening was particularly foggy
I kept expecting
or rather hoping
to see from a distance
some shady silhouette
under a streetlight
perhaps smoking a cigarette
but the only other late night creatures
excluding myself
were these odd little short legged birds
making a fuss whenever I came
but a hundred feet from them
I imagine that if birds were capable
of becoming ghosts
they would resemble these
curiously anxious winged animals
suddenly aware of every dark window
of every house on the street
facing my direction
watching
I made up my mind and
(from beneath the misty stagnant glow
my figure rendered a simple outlined shape
by a dim streetlight)
I lit a cigarette
and hoped that I met someone's
expectations for the night