Night work

I put on my black pants

for the dark.

I should have worn

a soft shirt for the cool.

No shoes, no socks,

the back lawn like a soaked sponge.

I blink my eyes

several times –

thought they were playing tricks.

Lightning flickers over in the next county,

a short in the wiring,

not serious.

I’ll take shift work if I have to.

I welcome the whispers

of the insects I cannot see.

Cars are far between.

I walk down the middle of the street,

a pattern of drizzled tar over

still warm cappuccino streets.

The manhole cover is round.

Someone left a light on

at the church on the corner.

I don’t think I ever peered through

that door window  across the street.

Red lockers on one wall,

red exit sign, not one child

in sight. Not one.

I can see as I turn

what they all see

in a different light.

Tonight over the roofline of the church

the horizon lights bright

on and off.

Someone playing with a switch.

My feet step with care.

I might be walking on sacred ground.

I feel the damp night air

against my bare chest.

How long have I forgotten to breathe it in?

I hear the sound of a running brook,

the storm drain where three raccoons once lived.

Perhaps I’m missing something.

It’s impossible not to miss almost everything.

Even the night watchman must sleep sometime.

But one thing puzzles me.

Why do my arms flail out from my shoulders

when it’s my feet cringing

on the hard gravel of my driveway

as I complete my round

and step back inside to lay my head down

and close my eyes for a minute?