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
ineptitude
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
