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SMALL TOWN ROAD ONE NIGHT
A child's laughter hurtles through the dark
like a puppy with a stolen bone. I am quite alone.
The sulky stare of a street lamp, stubbornly hugging
the grassy edge of this narrow small town road
slithering ahead of me;
this black tar road, this solitary lamp,
this backdrop of blacker-still night.
The squawk of an errant egret returning
to its nest long past curfew hour. White wings
rowing through sky - a blur
of anxious white, a flustered ghost in the moist black night.
No one can claim my space here, but whom
do I really need? The cities are mixed fruit jam jars.
Blended, you can be still so alone. That solitude is terrible.
You are squeezed in like that extra shred of underwear
into a box bursting at the seams. You are slung
neck to neck with people bearing grim,
no-trespassing signs for faces.
Now, my small town road is different. It
murmurs its own stories as it unwinds.
I am welcome to listen if I want, nobody invites.
I am free to lend an ear. It is alright
to eavesdrop. I may talk
to myself, if I so choose and my road will listen.
My monologue will not be an eccentric's soliloquy. Perhaps
a gecko below a loose brick in a dark garden wall
will chuck-chuck out of sympathy, or a shrew
scuttling busily will squeak her disapproval. It is all right.
They don't mind. Just as I don't mind that child's laughter
hurtling towards me in the dark,
nuzzling its way into my ear, seeking
a soft warm hole to bury its bone.
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