I am the only idiot who is so thick that he would think to take a walk
At three in the Monday morning
But I am not alone.
There are others,
Venturing forth into the shadows between the street lamps
No one is here to stay.
We are all travelers.
Where are you going?
From whence do you hail?
Why is there not silence? There is no one conscious here.
My footsteps do not make a sound. But the sounds are there.
Under every streetlamp, the highway sings.
It is an ugly song, but a song that calls one away never the less.
The sailors heard its prettier, younger voice.
Now it has grown old, and its voice is gravely from too many cigarettes
And it strains to keep singing, nothing but a cup of coffee holding it back
Now, a dog.
Bashful, quiet, dark, tail held between its legs
Runs out under the streetlamp, beside I, the boy in the trench-coat and fedora
To donate to the national trust
He glances, back, and forth.
He knows I see him, but it don't matter.
We are partners in crime.
I am here, laughing at the world too.
Where are you coming from, friend?
The dog asks me.
No where. I like to think I am going somewhere beautiful, though.
Where are you going, friend? I ask the dog.
Paris, the city of lights. I have heard it is lovely this time of year.
Then godspeed, pooch, for your journey is a long one.
And with a nod, he let loose one more line: You realize you look like a ******, right?
And then he was gone.
Another transient being.
What a funny place
This world is
On Monday morning,
At three AM.
And here I am, heeding the highway's siren song.