I half expected a lullaby instead she wailed;
a crazy bird its song like women weeping.

Streetlight

Powerline men call lamppoles “standards”
as if this is how we measure and evaluate.
For years the light has poured into our room,
curtainless, we bathed in it, let it caress our bodies,
but it didn’t penetrate the lie you were living, it warped vision,
never showed me your true colours, your dark secrets.
The streetlight that never goes out
is flickering as its pole sways in the wind.

While you were gone, I let it blot out the moon,
fantasized your presence in its glare.
The streetlight that never goes out
is flickering as its pole sways in the wind.
You frolicked under the glare of the natural,
city-bound, I waited for calls that never came.
I dreamed your messages in the beams of high pressure sodium,
bulbs inside metal that never grew or bloomed.
The streetlight that never goes out
is flickering as its pole sways in the wind.

Now I am measuring: there will be curtains,
heavy and thick as woven grief on a loom of needless loss,
the blacked out cracked windows of a lost war.
only stuttering smoking candles will light my room,
There is nothing standard about our love,
perhaps neither light nor dark is normal, only twilight.
The streetlight that never goes out
is flickering as its pole sways in the wind.

I dreamed of a midget six feet tall
who stomped the poet to the ground

Tonight the sky glides softly down
A river without care.

It’s amazing what you can get just looking out the window…Now I have to try to write a bop!