Poetry Time: The Street

September 15, 2009 (I was dying to use the word “gloaming.”)

Pinkening twilight unfurls,
but I toss away the moment,
watch the TV,
listen to the scores of statements,
answer with a question.

Last dying sunlight slants into my eye
through the fourth floor.
It is walking time,
through oaks and pines,
around liriope and henbit.

Past the catcalling college boys
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Grease at the corners of their mouths.
They blend into the gloaming,
unrecognizable shadows.

Streetlights flicker to life,
I go, eclipsing them before darkness falls.
Mute in disgust,
do I respond with a statement,
a question, or a finger?