'9

  '9


the swoop of tires at 3 am
no different than another night
but the crumpled moon
in pools of wan light
busy with a swirling snow

motorists scraping windshields
true to their impulsiveness
hiding destination more or less
from high in the sky prying eyes
mounted every quarter-mile


try to imagine - just imagine!
an ultimate authority
`some secret command
relayed down a long dark hill
to hand you your futility ...
who's - watching - now?

is it in
the steady drip of melt-off
from your damaged eaves?
`or the blackness of worn asphalt
to find the fault, mete punishments
all that obsidian world can offer?

` not likely, I'll proffer, don't take it lightly

the ceaseless bleat of a car alarm
that nobody does turn off
that staccato 'whoop!', the police car's siren,
it's Detroit iron, but you slept right through,
motor racing, strobe lights tracing,
in full speed pursuit down REM avenue

or maybe
when the night's people
merge street to street to shadow,
`petulant menace in the carriage of their voices,
their dope, their lies, their guns,
their chips on their shoulders, their choices?

see me motionless
in the alleyway
`quiet, hooded smoke
from a roach thrown away
a little joke spoke'n'toke I dare say
names and authors scratched in soft brick

do they wonder then, am I
the final authority?
`a look over the shoulder,
fear on hold but colder,
defiantly reliant enough
to amble down the street


then I realize
no one's in charge here
`nobody is... it is what it is -
the snow turns back to rain,
cold light reflects off a dark road,
and that moon - well, its just gone