Here, on a balcony, one floor above the ground, where I misplaced a year and didn't regret it, a barred window splits a bar light into shards and sends them out to illuminate the lawn.

This place has little more going on.
In the smallest hours, there's no need.

Tomorrow, when the bar lights all go out, I will step these tired feet across that pathway for the last time, on the way to my wagon, and soon forget all about it.

This one's for the road.