For The Greater Glory Of Iron And Smoke...
A bright moon floats over the lamps of the city,
Waning at two-thirds.
In silence I listen to the sounds of Summer in Chicago,
A cigar-puffing spectre on the wall in shadow.
Hip-hop plays to vacant tables on a deck washed in the soft glow of orange party lights,
A black hole of festive potential.
Angry voices fighting at One AM down the street,
A midnight-chasing chopper rumbles by mounted by a white tee shirt and shades with a mass of back-flowing hair,
Taxis hiss their hunting tires down empty streets searching for lonely vampire stragglers.
I sip coffee and puff prayers to heaven,
Dreaming of freedom,
To me embodied in whirling pedals glinting in sunshine,
Half a day away.
By: Daniel A. Stafford