There is a stillness to this street.
The cracked pavement silent without the steady ump thump of tires on its weather beaten scars and holes
Illuminated in the warm darkness by the flickering filament of a streetlight.
Its piss yellow cone shining like a candle screaming sanctuary into the surrounding void.
No drunks stumble on the chips in the sidewalk. No giggles of children as they pull each other in obnoxiously colored plastic wagons.
A near off motion light flicks to life betraying the presence of an invading cat.
But no one to see the stillness but for me and my pen.
I gaze at upon the road turtles in their forever unflinching lines.
In rank and file they sit as a uniform train of braille to alert the morning commuters what way traffic is on-coming. Alerting the drivers of impending mortality as they quest for their morning coffee.
But for now, just stillness. Good night road turtles, rest well for tomorrow will be soon.
Insomnia can be a beautiful thing.
I sit on my stoop and gaze toward the sky. I watch the clouds shift and float a part. I watch them change colors as a reckless child spilled his crayon box.
The colors shifting and bleeding before exploding into darkness all in an instant that lasts the blink of an eye, but also as slow as a breath.
Then the child picks up his crayons in the dark before heading home. Based on the eternal Mother's call of the street lamps lighting. For a few hours of stillness and calm, his room is nothing but the endless tidiness of night.
Only for him to awaken and kick the box over again. He frantically picks them up before his mother notices, before setting the scene once more.
Of cerulean blue sky, white clouds tinged with a hint of grey and finally scribbling in the lemon yellow sun to the sounds of the first birds of spring.
Good Morning crayon child, let me hang this day on the fridge.
