It’s too late. I’m tired. Won’t write a poem
tonight. Let the keyboard take off early.
Eyelids fight gravity. Body aches, some
deep twinge hemming me in. All this surely
will lead me to bed. Yet now, there below
in the parking lot, easy laughter and
talk of friends walking past. Walking slow
through our humid night.. I stretch as I stand.
Wonder where they work, if weary from their
long week. Or if they’re out of work, just two
of our 30 million. That book cover
from the Sixties now flashes into view:
“We the Lonely People, Searching for Com-
munity”. Title so heartbreaking, you
don’t need to read the text. Listen for some
voice in the night. Listen for talk that’s true.
Roger Armbrust
July 15, 2020
