[Rob Wright]

Between the Hours

I like to go out before the last vapor light
winks out. And as I walk along,
watch the flecks of broken glass
shimmer under my leather soles
like a drunkard’s field of stars.
I like to watch lovers search for cars –

shoes in hand, key fobs for their cars,
held high, waiting for the ping and flash of light.
It’s called the walk of shame. But these stars
of private passions seem to belong
to my own memories, as if their souls –
were pinned down and kept in cases under glass.

Along the pavements, rows of glass
windows are not just dark, but voids. The cars
that front them look as if their souls
are, for once, at rest. I hurry on. Daylight
comes and I’m the stranger – belong
to suckers fooled by tides, by moon and stars.

But the sporties are morning’s featured stars,
as they jog by me like spandex ghosts. Glass
on their glowing watches tick off the long
minutes sweated out until first light.
The sound of dog walkers rumpled soles
on slippers is just addible above cars

headed off to parks. Pets coaxed into cars
have names common and mundane – Felix, Star.
Their owners stare at me. Where is your soul,
they seem to say, your counterpart, that light
reflected by a slavish looking glass?
But I’m content to walk apart, belong

to borderlands while others move along
to homes, brewed coffee, and warmed-up cars.
They shower, wipe mist from glass
and see faces – familiar – but starstruck
when membranes between dark and light –
that darkness visible – sticks fast on souls.

I carry no light – real or imagined – on solitary walks.
The souls I encounter, like tarnished glass or stars,
vanish, if I look at them directly or too long.