Even Wisdom does not wander the streets
on a mean cold night like this.
The bright-eyed dwellings are silent
beneath the single white disk standing
astride the iron black horizon.
And Fools say things that sour
even the most benign of streets.
And Wisdom, with the cats,
Sits Silently behind the garbage can
marked: Civilizations, Old and New.
All are waiting, and Time, The Cynic,
Holds his pose the same for a million years,
Coming, Going.