On A Weekend Night
A lighter clicks
Snapping overworked fingers,
it does not spark.
A man sits on a wooden bench
on a weekend night,
places a lighter in his pocket
and does not remove his hands.
His legs are not crossed, but his
feet are, and the strings from his boots
scrape the pavement like an old branch
that survived another unforgiving season.
He waits above ground outside a subway station
shadowed by a bus every 15 minutes,
The evening is late for him, but early
for others bundled in wool jackets and cashmere scarfs
that cover parts and accessories
necessary to remember sips and laughs my mid-week.
A lighter is removed
from the man’s pocket. He stares
He does not attempt to light it again
because he has realized
that no life remains inside.