Out at Night, Walking
The heavy white cat curled in the garden
is not the moon
Nor is the light scattered on bristling leaves
the glimmer of stars
Under the chatter of phosphorescent lights
vented steam takes no shape greater than fog
The town chatters. The far chop of a helicopter
rises and fades
Where I stood stands empty now
Where I was is gone
Where I am, out late at night
end of a rope tied to a dog
David Good
