The Canyon at Three AM

Cracked sidewalks
damp from a midnight shower
accompanied only
by moonless doors
and the smell of wet pavement
line a street now free of taxis
but flanked, as in daylight
by walls of masonry and glass
boxes containing boxes
inhabited by lives, separate
and collective

Lights switch off
one by one with no pattern
random as the deaths of friends
after one is seventy.

A light
then darkness
one by one
here, there
the click unheard

Behind the dark
souls stir.

Poetry Thursday