by Phil Cline
Mist surrounds the morning moon
Hovering above night’s remainder,
Heaven’s pale reflection of regret.
Dawn waits wet residue to dry,
Moist women asleep, their legs languid,
Carelessly spread, left apart-by the departed.
The raucous evening’s promises redeemed
Foolish jocularity shortened by haste of
Dreaded day. Here any moment now.
Friends hurry home,
New enemies scurry away,
Excess devolved to lonely stillness
The tinkling music of clinking glasses gone,
Dark wood bar wiped, band packed, smokes lit.
All’s mute, wary of another horizon.
Windows shuttered, doors locked,
Gates of iron bars chained and secure.
The night’s celebration contained.
We, the last souls out,
Standing on the street
Respectful of the silence.
A dog pats by on gentle paws,
Suspicious of what he smells,
Cautious of what he might disturb.