Melancholia

These environs
Encompass no
Horizon, just
The day-to-day
Play of plush light
On this window,
On that widow.
Everything

Will die, it’s true.
In the meantime,
This stream of rhyme
Serves as sandbag
Against the plash
And pull of time,
Party killer,
Filler with rue.

Authorities
Scamper, intent
On some duties.
Lights blink on and
always back off.
She coughs into
Her small, black hand,
And night slams down

On the tense town,
Filled with promise,
As all towns are,
for a moment,
and then it’s gone.
The rubber smiles
And random miles
March ever on.