Listening to every heart
Eleven P.M. Mist
Standing on the street corner
bathed in artificial sunlight
from the all-night street lamp;
smelling the gutter smell of old leaves
and two dead rats;
listening to the hungry howl of an
alley-Tom (remembering my own Tom once
called Mr.), and even the alley-Mr.,
though hunger stricken,
passes by the rancid rats.
Mist comes in, cooling my face
after the warm April afternoon;
but now a chill sets in, in the eleven p.m. mist,
the cold and chilling eleven p.m. mist.
Wish to go home, do I.
But then beggars would ride horses
with silk manes.
Eleven p.m. mist blankets my body,
and if I sleep tonight, only my spirit
will stay to be cooled by
the eleven p.m. mist.
Circa April, 1970
17 October 1999
Look, then, into thine heart, and write ~~~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow