This poet’s muse, now a distant stench,
A refrain worth repeating.
Midnight hues, his fingers clench,
A valiant sun retreating
Over chimney tops, caked dust and soot,
Night pushes back the day,
And gently hops, through Winter fruit,
upon Summer sun she lay.
Three full grown men, strode arm in arm,
their whispered voices fading,
and slowly then, in mock alarm,
a street lamp! skip, evading.
The neon glow, of rest, reprieve!
a solitary sign,
and inward flow, what we’d best believe,
are sound and happy minds.