Friday night and the wine is almost gone.
Sound of buses on the street below my window,
people going somewhere, returning from somewhere,
staring at their faces reflected in the dirty bus window,
making lists, forming speeches, framing apologies.
All the things that make us human;
communication, regret, envy,
are the things that keep us apart.
I send my thoughts out and ask
for nothing but acknowledgement,
an admission of inclusion,
a need to know I belong.
But I am a poet.
What was I thinking.
The voices of the night are mine.
I stare into the eye of the moon
and read omens there.
The darkness is mine,
has always been…
I gave up the light for understanding.