Small brown rodents scurry across the shell of the span.
A broken and weeping child lies upon the makeshift bed,
And at the shattered window next to the door, the slumped
Tears of a torn fabric drop in the wind.
Soon the door to that other noisy time will thrash and split
And the barrels of the sun will enter without knocking
And demand of them a fresh, uncluttered room.
(Surely the wave of fabric will startle them.)
After a rather lengthy and determined conversation,
The barrels will find reverie in their clatter
And breathe a sigh of relief at their escape.
Across the alleyway a woman seizes her bread and her child
And runs frightened into the abandoned street.
Looking up toward her sister’s shattered casement,
She calls out to her.
The sky rolls in its troops and the moon calls forth its howl.
A new landscape moves in as the rodents groom their nails
And hone their teeth for a grand feast upon the streets.
Tonight will be no different than the last; the dark queen
Will issue her edict to the fangs of night and forth they shall come,
armed and invisible.
With precision they’ll carve the brief respite of silence like a sword
And yet another shattered child will consume the fabric.
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
