The Dead Hour


Moon’s going down.

Jack o’ Lantern

sitting on the foothills,

smiling at me.

Slowly, he drops down

into a shroud of clouds,

and the horizon burns

to embers

that die in the darkness.

Behind me,

I know the Sun schemes

on bringing a new day.

It is a trickster,

revealing just enough of the world

to make a sucker buy in.

But I’m down today.

Flat busted and unafraid.

I’m not playing,

even if I’m at the game.

I’m here to experience,

in that precious darkness

that only exists

between moon fall and sunrise,

the freedom of being homeless.

No. Not street wandering drug addicts,

or untreated mental patients,

but an ambiance

of pure abandonment,

perfectly unmoored from the day.

No allegiances.

No vices.

I think it is here

that I might hear

angels singing.

I’ve been saved

by more than one or two.

The reckless petulance

of a restless youth.

The hard hearted


of middle age.

Yeah, there’s been a few.

That’s why,

in the dead hour,

before the world awakes

and the game begins anew,

I sit

in silence,

perfect as a graveyard,

and listen

to the angels sing

the harmonies

before the hostilities.



DJR – 2023

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