Wet Blacktop

A low fog

clings to the ground,

eerily lit

by a sliver of moon

and itinerant street lights.

The streets are slick with rain,

more a mist

than a downpour.


The pavement blacktop

soaks up the light,

soaks up the blood,

soaks up the sin,

revealing nothing,

except where it collects water

in the potholes

that become windows to the soul.



that great deceiver,

can be revealer

to the endless line

of tortured souls

that crave the darkness.

Light rejecters,

children of nothing.


Every sound

is somehow amplified,

like the hiss of tires

on the wet road

and headlights cut

through the perfect stillness

like brilliant sword strokes,

that quickly pass.


The engine roars

and fades hastily,

red tail lights

marking their trespass

and the interruption

of the pristine empty

is assuaged

by the return of darkness.


Surely I

am not the only

flagrant sinner

who loves the night.

Surely others

find sanctuary

between the black sky

and the hard city.


The rain is picking up,

with a cold wind;

now it’s no place

for man, nor beast

and I leave

this unlikely oasis

to find my bed

in the small hours.


Before dawn arrives

and I must craft

my illusion

once more;

I’ll dream of the darkness

and the stillness

of the city’s

hidden heart.


HG – 2018

Leave a Reply