Yard Sale of Thoughts

What Happens in the Dark

I’m slinking around,

a morning street light

casting little glow,

acting all innocent,

as if they don’t know

what I’ve been up to all night.

Flashing my figure,

defying darkness’ beauty,

light polluting.

The sun blasts its rays

in my prisoner face,

a spotlight of blame,

full-force border patrol

high-mast illumination.

A cobra head ready to strike

until it elicits a confession.

“I’m sorry, God.”

A dull deflection,

I try to blink off,

but when there’s no reply,

direct confrontation:

“It was below my station,”

and in a final flicker I lie.

“Maybe in my next night,

I’ll get right.”

ABBA Cover “Slipping Through My Fingers”