by Raymond P. Storez
There's a lonely lamppost
on the corner of the street -
the meeting of the two.
The electric full moon, it
shines it's beams from not
so very high overhead.
The city is dead with sleep.
There's now only dust on
the streets, and my own two
feet echoing footsteps by
dark alleyways, the cold numbing
them through the canvas.
Pockets aren't warm, and my breath
comes in thick smoke, cutting air
so cold it freezes my eyes wide open.
Under that light now, washed up
in the pale nothing, the false moonlight.
And turning my head to look down,
below my feet some scraps of careless trash,
I hear behind me the echo of smaller, lighter
footsteps following in my wake, my shadow
who's brighter than any low-lit moon,
who's radiance is felt behind me now.
My bare arms-
I'm wide open to the cold here,
and somehow I'm still warm.
