Grateful acknowledgment is made to Joseph Bruchac's Greenfield  Review (NY) which first published this poem.

from the collection THIS WAY OUT
 
 

Midnight Marching Band

The hot spots close up near dawn
Shutting out empty sidewalks
Or the silence driving everyone away
When last whispers carry off some love to bed
And the whole business falls apart
And a door clicks back the night
A gun never shot, but going off
I echo up and down the street.

The windows watch me see them in myself
Carrying the reflections of a man who always passes
Outside where images walk themselves away—
Inside there’s always another man
Puts them on
And loses them
Losing hours like coins dropped in the gutter
When it’s 5 a.m. and begging sidewalks leaves you broke.

I really haven’t got the time to be here
At 4 a.m. or now it’s 3 a.m. it strikes me.
These signs for no one echo on
And off, each second of blackness remembering
The slow, then slower turning of a key
I refuse to carry anymore:
Ignorance should be easier, the stakes
Less costly, and the world less likely to wake up.

It’s 2 a.m. or 1 a.m. or it’s midnight
And the hot spots have shut down early
So where do I go
And how can they carry themselves
Splashing cymbals
Around the corner toot and fife
Drum and left and right
One step opening, another closing.

Sleep walks the mind sometimes
Like a pet
But even if I closed my eyes
This band of thieves could break the chain
Striking so late
Some music to play out solitude till dawn—
And though I’ve never carried a tune
It all looks so easy I fall in line
I march, I march, I forget.

 
 
 
R Bartkowech

Copyright © 2000 by R Bartkowech