Urban nocturne

The shepherd of your sleep,
�����������������������������������������I gather
each vestigial smile and line of laughter -
the sprawl, then close curve of limbs
as you turn in your dreams.

The city on wings rustles outside our window.
Draped in strings of red pepper lights,
it whispers promises to hold the moon

������������������������������if only I can stay awake.

Behind glass and steel lattice,
I sense the halt of night.

****

Urban aubade

I open my eyes to find I�ve been cheated of time -
your snores now packed in suitcases,

��������������������������������������������you in a yellow cab.

In an empty room, a cool washcloth
fights the growing heat,
�������������������������������������the absence of your touch

and I wake again to a city that is no longer mine.

I tuck a talisman of the evening before
behind my ear - the first crystal chord
of a twelve-string guitar - and with one final
�good morning� at the desk,

�����������������������������������I'm out on the street.

The little basset walking his owner
is no longer familiar and dear. My throat
closes as wrens refuse to look for crumbs
at my feet, frightened

�������by shoes leaking the last sangria skies.



� 2002 by PJ Nights
previously published at Slow Trains