A Man Whistling in the
Semi-Dark
The surf beckons
with her muffled voice,
but the
baby sea turtles move
toward a fog bank of hotel lights.
Forty years
ago we stood
under a sky powdered with stars.
Today we commute
in a
haze of headlights, and return home
to well-lit evenings, our souls
as
washed out as the night sky.
I wander outside for a smoke.
The stars
have vanished, like the nightingale.
Can I still mimic its
whistle?
How did it go?
Bob Bradshaw is a big fan of the Rolling Stones. Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob
is. Recent work of Bob's can be found at
Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Eclectica,
Chantarelle's Notebook and
Slow
Trains.
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