Box of light.

Night tiles rattle and street glass roils

traffics of cars, faces and moon. But, no star

arcs the raindrop, the shoeshined puddle, the paving, even.

 

Trainbent, late, and suddenly lost. Of the first to cross

the concourse mouth, I ask direction, but

with sorry she passes without pause.

 

A near full minute, then a second appeared.

West Hall, as he understood, newspaper roofing him,

was still some fair distance. He patted his head, hoping,

 

I suppose, to summon location but, unable to

conjure or relay required information, suggests

it would be easier to drive me there than explain.

 

The offer caught me by surprise, as did the wide streets

of Middlesbrough and shortly, the welcome box of light above

a threshold of avid smokers, West Hall Worki_g Mens’ Club.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hope that this finds you well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4 thoughts on “Box of light.

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