There is a time in the
Night when everything
Comes to a stop and
There is no movement
A long necked water
Tap; a lid balanced on
Top of a plastic container
A big Chinese bowl
Resting in a frying pan
Coffee pot and toaster
There is a red light
Filling the bottom of
The windows of the
Hotel across the street
Late on a Friday night
Like the blood in a syringe
Such a fine, thin line
Which separates fantasy
From the rest of reality
Robbie Burns ballads
Bouncing from the one
Snow covered mountain
Top to the next and
Ferries traveling across
Tow peninsulas going north
Cutting through frigid air
Romantics on the road
Making the night their bed
And poets who refuse to die.
