Poem

Unannounced Visit

Neither snow, nor rain, nor gloom of night.

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

I rush, I wish, and I hope it’s not too late.
Pushing the pace up the icy grade,
I make haste, spurning pooling wintry rain.
Ahead, silver auras flicker around
the street lamps, and the headlight probes.
A faceless mortal pussyfooting
downhill on the slick sidewalks,
heads the other way, venting.
A bus rumbles past me,
rolls slowly toward the corner stop,
where a lone fellow awaits.
The bus leans into the loading lane,
takes on the loner, turns right on Broadway,
and continues its route. In pursuit,
I reach the same corner, and look up, off to the right,
sweeping the façade that’s come into view.
A fine beacon the light at your window does make.

Previously on Scribe:

Cult of One