The graveyard shift has a solitary pace,
a long distance run for some thoroughbred
putting itself out there.
How I prefer these cloaked night owl
passages, the clock idle, and the mind
freely roaming, if keen with intention.
This babysitter concentrates.
A house watchman sprouting
hooves, the couch now a brook and,
nearby, nylon screens commanding some
mistral. I lie here opening. It’s
an intricate job. Across
the street, by moonlight, a machine is
devouring lilacs for a parking lot.
Seems rather dumb, the large merciless
rototiller lapping up sweet bunches…
Severity bleeds mute, says it’s humane.
I turn, trot on, become
a notebook momentarily. The flanks,
bulging images, succumb to the dignity
which language unbridles.
By sunrise, a Benzedrine mare,
the words will reclaim themselves
as the barn beds me down.