With the Dawn

With the Dawn

 

Admiration for those able to discover

sublimation in the tracks left by coyotes

in the snow; envy, as well, when one

captures the scent of honeysuckles in bloom

on a balmy July twilight. Here, beneath

sodium lights and stale cigarette smoke,

beauty assumes different gradations.

Across, always

across the room, someone stirs

an amaretto sour they have been nursing

for over an hour, each sip a prayer to lesser gods

from the pantheon of loneliness. Each time

a couple leaves, the glass empties a bit. Another

follows another before the lights

send the solitary out into the shadowscape.

Before the sun

spreads warmth to staggered patches of asphalt,

I will stop and breathe deep the diesel fumes

of my people in this concrete wilderness,

and I will feel gratitude when I see the streetlights

flicker on once more.

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