words

waiting for evening to strike,
the twilight’s permission to drink
and drink heavily and alone,
to come to an understanding
with the circumference of my swing,
how elliptical my reasoning may get.

amber lights of poverty,
the backyard dog calls to keep back,
stay on my side of the road.

now at a state of rest,
watching the shadow of a guinness harp
float lightly on the surface of foam.

the night arrives in contrast,
through conflicting shades,
headlights burning like eyes
bloomed in fire, an old and creaking
greyhound moves through,
its hackles rising in dark twos
behind the shade of its windows,
time wearied travelers
of old world methods and ideas
getting off here, for good
or bound for other interludes.

little pockets of the city
that never stop burning, always lit up
and powered on by the wayside,
off highway exits, crossroads
for crime and midnight debauchery.

too old for idolatry,
at some point the gods
must come to rest,
at some point the rum
must catch up,
in the present swing of my circumference
the world must turn faster
to keep up with my ellipsis.

-S.C. Martinez