The Street Lights’ Tops
A weekday prose poem
The street lights’ tops are shaped like UFOs.
A spiderweb clinging to one in an isosceles triangle.
I look around - the cold - it feels like home,
Its perimeter’s lined up with windy walls.
They fluctuate each second — refracting light
Then changing angles.
The pavement strikes me with its darkness,
Chalk digits on the asphalt, shapes -
Sixth form geometry -
Wistfully Euclidean in the memories it sparks.
The reminiscing -
It’s supposed to give me hints,
Guide my own trajectory towards success…
…serenity?
But for now my life’s projection is infinity -
An eight — again, at a wrong angle…
It Starts with cigarettes,
And Ends with mints.
The decibels of absence
In the wake of your explosive exits -
They scatter atoms through the holes
Pierced through my ear lobes.
The blood - smooth and smelly -
Apparently, its full of ferritin.
Which must be good?
I’d gladly trade my iron though
In exchange for histamine — burnt skin
Left as the result
Of your love, packed in soft gels made
Of cheap, unappetizing gin.
The one to blame for ethanol-induced
Demolishment of walls
Made up of sober winds.
‘Come back!’, I shout.
But no one hears as everyone’s inside,
And it is late,
Here in this godforsaken, residential space.
Except the street lights shaped like UFOs,
Defiant in the face of weather.
Casting cosmic shadows
All over my fate.
All over forever.
