Night Moves

The Song of Survivors Always Sounds Like Crayon-Stringed Reveille after the Crowds Rush the Exits

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SHUTTER FLIGHTS: It is not what is seen, but sensed, just behind you, just beyond reach, safe, savage, and unsound. Photo by Imraumanzug on Unsplash

night has a noise all its own
under street lamps and moonlight
murmuring through trees,
lapping up the luxury of forgotten tales

he speaks through the crackle of this smartphone universe,
and I see myself, waiting in the wings of his presidential flights,
where it’s dark and it’s savage, and it’s
our safe space, he on the move,
me watching him capture stars out of
ordinary things
the cheerleaders and the jocks walk past,
jingling their spare change,
jostling for a shot at all the love money can buy

I am his wild thing
tucked in the front right pocket
as we fly past slumbering
Norman Rockwell paintings
and figments of Mad Men’s
imaginations, set to the same four chords
in the same four stores
mom and dad always leave us behind

News at 4

this explains … everything …
the friendless joy,
the aching lonely emptiness of
small talk and football,
you over there, fending me off,
with useless words
reading penniless signs

yet, I am friend,
your wild thing,
lurking in the shadow,
right behind,
watching you drown your sorrows,
chasing the elusive muse,
drinking the inky darkness,
until there is nothing left
but a picture no one understands

save for me

Originally published at https://carolbankswebercoggie.wordpress.com on January 28, 2021.

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