Folded Whispers

LATE NIGHT STROLL

you called for me,
like a friend,
intuitively intervening−

telling me,
I’ve been inside for too long−
something is up,
your inquisition was right-timed.

I’ll come out to you,
but If I can’t concentrate−

blame my mind,
frantic and circulatory;

blame the City−
a soundtrack of neon rhythms
and cover bands;

blame the universe−
a blanket above our eyes
of unrevealed stories and traces;

and we’ve discovered
each other;

like three lonesome amazes
ready to stroll

for moscow mules,
broken off trophies,
strobe lights,
and decorated alleys.

You have my permission
to wonder, in a midnight silence,

why it took me decades
to prelude a lack of focus.

but for tonight, I just need
the City and the canopy.

seduced by my own
orchestrated spontaneity.

I’ll survive off little food,
but an appetite for
a more pronounced hunger−

I’ll open myself up for
a consensual abstract−

tailor-made for the
built-environment’s
inhibitions and anonymities

and for the night of my life,
I won’t be alone.

By Mark Anthony Thomas
From Folded Whispers