To walk along the dark path
So polite in it's garden ordinariness
Is different in the late night
At the hour of the witch
The house windows are black
And the porch lights are off
The sticky pitch eyes of the cold houses watch
And behind the shadow of the empty buildings
Is a sick orange glow of the far away city
The trees that shade and the weeds that seek
Grasp at the edges of the sidewalk and in their shadows could be anything.