On the street corner, a sycamore
moonlights as a martyred saint.
There are days when everything
seems to mean something. There
are nights when the moon is held up
like a convenience store. I watch
the neighborhood. The neighborhood
watches itself. Police don’t take kindly
to the paranormal. Even poltergeists
have unions nowadays. I miss you
for the memory of having not
known you for so long, for the way
if you didn’t have to leave, dawn
would never enter this room at all.