The Observer
Dark alleys full of littered trash and worn paths,
The clearest sky, filled with an egg-white crescent.
A square shaft of gold graces a damp brick barricade,
Clicks of remote control buttons, it’s Friday evening;
Static noise congests the humid air, sick coughing—
Sorry to disturb your program, there is a storm approaching,
Young lady with dull lead eyes speaks, disappointments
Must have lead her here, shuffling stark white papers,
Stating to all a good night, 9 o’clock news.
Slim fingers clutch the black piece of plastic, flipping
Through channels, ten, eleven, twelve, and finally
pushing the overused power button and heaving into
fatigue, a plump grubby khaki couch.
Tomorrow the sunbeams would rendezvous with him,
The lady with the coal eyes smiles, plastic smiles,
In awe at the shambles her life is in, and he would,
As well, pass away the hours, watching her, observing
the world, through the black box in his living room.
Awaiting the storm the woman speaks of.