A little death

Through streets that confine

twist distort.

Where heat burns up

And days are bleak.

But nights are

endless. And each

are silent

but for the wind hurrying into streets

And barking dogs

And angry men that do not sleep.

There is a table set

Two plates. Two cups

The bread is cut.

Here he sits

Neither made demands just promises. Eyes

soft words kind.

But harsh lights flicker

On off on off

Where wires and things overhang

Where long thin shadows reach

there is a little death.