In the shadows of the night

we see the darkness;

in the darkness,

we see the light.


My concrete steps are twenty

yards from the interstate North.

In the tiny hours before dawn,

flashing amber signal

outlines exhaust.

Waiting for disaster

while the hearth cools

before some dozing

love of what is fair.

On guard against sleep,

watching the produce trucks

ride a ribbon of death

dredged up from a world

so long past, it was reptile ruled.

Supplies move at night

so no one sees

them come,

and go.


first published in Wind Row II, Spring, 1989.

About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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