the new night is
not yet pawing the leaf litter
or sharpening it’s teeth
on fences or trees
the wind doesn’t turn my head
sitting alone here on the bench
it knows I won’t look up
without the sound of footsteps
maybe it’s an old person thing
needing to say important things
to another human being
between the fleeing of day and
the arrival of night when a certain
silence seems dead set on taking
the seat between us
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