Poetry: 1 Poem by David B. Prather

Blight

This city does nothing but sleep.
It snoozes, slumbers and snores.

2:00 a.m. comes and goes and leaves
five minutes of rain in the driveway.

Quiet spreads a blanket and turns
off the stars.  The moon is new,

and it knows the irony.  Streetlights
barely notice how dark the world gets

around them.  It’s too early for crickets,
and spring peepers have forgotten

the words to this song.  The streets
begin to fall apart, chunks of pavement

come to rest, come to rest, come to rest.
I’m sorry, I was dreaming.

I was dreaming of downtown
where sidewalks wither.

I was dreaming of abandoned buildings
staring blindly out over the river,

the river, the lonely river.
If I should die before I wake,

who would notice?  Not
the woodbine drowsing

on the backyard fence.  Not brick walls
that sleepwalk in the smallest hours of night.

Not thousands of weary people yet to open
their thousands of weary eyes.
 

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