Street lights crowd around the frozen cars,
exchanging colors
in view of my weary eyes.

The piercing shriek of rusted hinges
doesn't voice itself at this hour,
and would be unwelcome,
if it did.

Before the dawn,
when shades bloom into vibrant alter-egos
and sleeping colonies
open their factory doors again,
I sit with my dog,
taking care of the night watch,
and he sits with me,
taking care of the loneliness,
and we wait for sleep to claim us.

I am less willing,
or able,
to submit,
than he,
and I usually see sleep coming
and warn it off
with the pitchfork of melancholy wakefulness
afforded me by insurpassable regrets
and memories of lost gold.

But sleep always captures me
in the end,
by devious means, if called for,
and I wake in a different world,
hours, or decades, later,
having no idea when it happened,
pitchfork resting at the edge of a dream
I cannot recall,
poised for inaction.

Among the scented wash of daisies
and the nagging echo of time,
I move towards a footstep
and change my mind in the same moment,
glad,
or reluctant,
as ever.