#253

Walking the deep blue streets of a suburb,
middle of the night, not a breath out but your own,
that specific quality, like
being on the other side of a painting's canvas.

You're old enough not to be frightened
by this absence of others, the tree-line train,
small houses connected by patches of yard,
you're old enough to forget the thrill at this night.

A white cat hisses and runs off, frightened by your steps.
Behind the West End Deli, long since closed,
a guy is sitting on the ground, pouring turpentine
into a glass jar, through a piece of white bread.