Night Shift

Converse Hi-Tops hang from street lights while
crosses of telephone poles stay stuck
in chunks of sidewalks
like carnival birthday candles on a gray cake. Above from the airplane window seat,
all the strips malls look like
mini-X-mas lights in comma shapes,
30,000 feet from two-dog towns. Birds are periods on electric lines.
Red and white leukocyte dots of cars
breathe through capillary streets. Expressways named after dead presidents
connect little-mid-to big sized towns. Gas, food and lodging signs point to
Stinker Stations selling 32 ounce cherry Icees.

Teens guzzle glycemic ketoacidosis in a paper cup.

Homebound hoboes hold
bumpy, cirrhotic, brown paper bag bottles
as they
catch rides through the old, cracked
filmstrip streets. Alleyways alive with phosphorescent gold lights
buzz until the break of fast is lifted,
and night is put away
like a black sock in an
old walnut chest of drawers.
Copyright © 2018 by Carolyn M. Bevington. All Rights Reserved.

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