May. Weekend. Midnight. Dark void nicked only
by glints of scattered streetlights revealing
brief tree leaves. Silence sliced by some lonely
ballad from hoarse male tenor fingering
electric keyboard on So Restaurant’s
outdoor balcony. All this flowing through
my townhouse writing-room windows. Cars haunt
North Lookout in flickering wisps, breathe whew
as if at last reaching safety. Soft glare
of monitor only light inside my
room as I write this sonnet. Ask me where
all this is going. Even ask me why
I sit in dark on a Saturday night.
Truth is, inside me glows another light.
Roger Armbrust
May 22, 2010
