Tonight, a tired world slumps, dusty-shouldered,
living large in a tapioca dream, puréed and puerile.
Tonight, the moon decides our fate but blows,
instead, a kiss of light outward to the squinting stars.
Tonight, there sit angry men, rye and ribald
as coffee grounds in the wine, telling cold stories.
Tonight, the light has scurried down the wall
to tease her cache of frozen friends, weeping silently.
Tonight, in the destitution of morbidity,
a son refuses comfort, a daughter, embrace.
Tonight, a mother’s touch unoffered, renders
a mind, once hopeful, to break with yearning.
Tonight, a once great man’s manhood hangs
in the balance of his choice of self-destruction.
Tonight, a people sleep restlessly, awake
to nothing new, asleep to all that’s old.
Tonight, when clocks tick forward, marching
like soldiers, the seconds grasp for more of less.
Tonight, a humble priest, lips now entombed,
trembles in happy disbelief with news of eternity.