Just Outside
by Russ Faulconer
A view from on high,
the passing storm left a rain
wet street, clear blue sky,
and refracted light
skimming across the surface
of puddles, so slight
a shimmer, a cat
glares with suspicion and risks
a tentative pat
before taking a
drink, slowly, deliberately,
then making its way
weaving a keen path
tween pedestrian puddles
who chatter and laugh
then walk down the street,
eyes on the cellphone as they
wonder where to eat
and how to manage
it without ending up too
late for the menage
meeting in the break
room, the hum of fluorescent
light, Stale Cupcakes,
and rainfall again
blowing against the windows
the sidewalks, to send
the cat running home,
to suffer master's love with
such a gentle comb.
A magic dance till break of day,
the music loud, the pretty lights
and what did all the good folk say
they made complaints without delay,
a local law they chose to cite
you cannot dance till break of day
and if you do, our nerves will fray,
a consequence of your delight.
And that is what the good folk said.
But prancing does not go away,
continues on in lovely spite.
Dancing until the break of day
is how the magic people play.
They're not the slightest bit contrite,
no matter what the good folk say.
For nothing will their fears allay.
The good folk simply aren't that bright.
So dance until the break of day,
and disregard what good folk say.
