Waiting for the Night

Illuminated by Darkness

It is Friday, four o’clock. Four o’clock. A time that’s never quite right, for anything to take flight, always too late or too early, in-between, such a blurry peculiar hour in the afternoon, either too late or too soon. Today it feels unbearable.

In darkness visible, I sit and wait for the night to fall and illuminate this cold and lonely Friday afternoon.

A polar sun blanches the dusty glass on the window. The washed-out sky is cluttered with white and grey clouds. The gutters were filled with ice when I woke up this morning.

I sit on my bench, stuffed red vinyl, at my white enameled table, by my old burnt stove, by my peeling window, a pine tree outside, a street that’s wet and cobbled.

I already know the day is lost. Nothing good will come of it, until the night’s hood covers the sky. Then I’ll come out of my daze, in the dark I’ll find my ways.

The cold sun shines on dirty fog, and casts a pale, dull light. It spreads false reflections, in the blandness of the white.

It’s a day to be alone, to find solace in oneself.

In the fading light, I wait for the night, when I will be lit by darkness made visible.

For more poems from this collection, please visit the list below — Impressions and Perspectives. Thanks for reading!

Here are lists to some of my other work. Once again, I appreciate your interest!