THAT WHICH IS CLANGING
It is far too late now for regrets on this
motion - the fair wind, it rattles the porch.
The cat crosses the middle of the street, in a
late-night dash, black stealth, like a shadow.
Here come the new arrivals; they signal their
presence with their own sort of noise.
Just a few girls, noisily getting out of their
car; something is drunk, I can't tell if it's them
or their car. They stand around the curbing,
un-naturally loud, while trying to play sober.
It's nothing they'll find on their radio dial,
and they are not very good actors at all.
The fair wind, it rattles the porch.