Afternoons are for waiting
Waiting for the chill of night
When, in the madness of our discontent,
We shed our masks and roam
Naked beneath our sweaters.
Afternoons are for
Drinking the pale wine of youth
That starves our hearts of their loveliness
And makes our lives like fireflies–
For empty chairs
Sitting beneath the hollow sky
Cold ambivalent chairs
Alone in the quiet maturing light.
I am for afternoons,
And for watching the trees fall asleep
Along the empty sidewalks,
Lulled by the whispers of their leaves
And the promise of autumn
In the bite of the air.
In the silence of bricks
I hear the heartbeat of the world.