By Morgan Driscoll
It was always when the sun was gone
but the light hung on,
twisting into night with dwindling
caution, pinned by the evening star,
and you were out alone again.
Where were your friends?
Eating with their warm sisters,
books along the entrance hall.
It was always then.
There, at the time between.
On the empty sidewalks,
by the darkened hedge
under street lamps not yet lit.
It was sometimes there,
it was always then that the blue silence scratched
among the parked cars,
hollowed itself on aluminum siding,
hid in the spaces between the mortar and the brick,
lay out naked along the dim.
There is no need for shadow when all is shadow:
the mockery of daytime,
the portent of night,
the quiet when there’s so much sound inside
and you are out alone again.
The scraps from when the air had voice lie hushed:
A cigarette filter,
the morning paper, sopped.
words drawn in cement, you read again
You wandered the construction site.
You stood by the gated shop windows.
You sat inside the alley
without fear, without confidence,
with the knowledge of the emptiness of dark.
Morgan Driscoll is a long time commercial artist, looking to express himself in some other way than selling Widgets. Poetry seemed the least commercial, and most under the radar way he could think of. So far it has been a satisfying, but obscure journey. He has been published in The Amethyst Review.