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when midnight comes we gather 'round
this doleful bowl and scarce is sound
of hushed voice low on light striped grass.
what we've made here are friends at last,
and with each puff life gains its sense;
exhale high in recompense.
at peace we part as birds arrive
(night's denouement, in part contrived)
premiering songs to usher out
these tired thoughts that flit about
of la boheme and how we are
compared to it: my beat-up car.
lucky, we, that comfort reigns
in bourgeois homes through window panes.
© 2013 Nicholas Emeigh
Read by the Author
Notes: This poem was originally published to the web on January 29, 2007.
The unique works displayed on the pages herein are © 1997-2013 Nicholas Emeigh. Use is restricted.
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