Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 30 (212.)

They’re so beautiful, all the
lights on after midnight.
Pockets of wakeful civilization
in the vast unchecked wilderness.
They are a comfort for I, too,
am a night owl.
On the short walk to my car
I spot a handful of lights shining from domiciles
and they’re much too bright for night-lights.
Those people are awake, I tell myself.
Just like me.
Wouldn’t it be fun to knock on a random door
and hope for conversation?
If someone knocked on my door after 9 PM,
I’d be a little freaked out.
Wary, at the very least.
And I don’t like making people uncomfortable,
so I’ll leave them to their peace.
Still, the lights are nice. They beckon. Enticing.
I need to find someone
who will howl at the moon with me.
We can be
night creatures,
and drink the first cup of coffee
well past noon.
The last cup of coffee
is probably brewed around 9 or 10 PM.
What glorious times to come alive.
My eyes do get tired, however, so I must
bid you good night.

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