thunderstorm at half past seven

street lamp, you solitary phantom,
stand tall and reach out to
the dreams that blow whistling soft,
past uninvited Wednesday lunches
with lovers’ tears and torn bouquets
of red roses in red snow.

you live silent through Saturday picnics:
quiet and ridicule the illegible clamour
of toddlers of thirty-two,
sunrises that blush and sunsets
that thrive in orange and dark purple velvet;

and perhaps the afternoon sun will leave
you a touch of yellow sunshine
to call home. six o’clock the lightning strikes:
the world awaits your subtle fire;

then the traveller in the dark
bleeds tears of joy at your cement booted feet.
street lamp, won’t you sprinkle
stars like raindrops on my lonely love tonight?

T. E. Pyrus


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