Tuesday

Alan Dugan

There are no lovers in the park tonight. O no.
Cats have been put out but they don't like it and say so.
You can hear the telephone wires weeping like poets
in a wind that fingers each nerve end with a separate shiver.

The street lights hang permanently above us like great thinkers.
O their loneliness appalls me and I turn to your brief self,
having seen their incandescence, the dreary landscape of inquiry,
and in it our cold nakedness. It's a bad night, honey, a bad night.