Morning Moon

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.