by Steven J. Serafiani
I want to keep the night turned to sorrow;
there is an elderly black woman in a bonnet picking flowers across the street, a lovely petal study.
The night kept sorrow;
drunk flies skipped stones across mighty oak weight, begging for mosquito itch.
“Sorrow,” the night said;
I pissed in the sink and mumbled lines from some play about some man who lost a horse race, the fool and his ripped ticket.
Sorrow the night wept;
trite words punctuated on the edges of yesterday’s times on and on and on until newspaper boy’s yawn throw, a stoop riddled sorrow.