City

City


It is early in my night wander.  A clear moonlit evening,
people in upbeat mood saunter, coagulate.
I decide to hide in plain sight among randomly sized
street kids.  I have mild acquaintance with some who
regularly gather in this officially abandoned playground.
Disarray of trash, broken glass, dismal hazards are not
as obvious in pale moonlight.
I stand outside the circle of active conversation.  My
attitude of wary self-preservation is common among
this outcast class.  I hear talk of violent confrontations
with authorities.  The powerless tend to invoke the sadist
in those who enjoy subjugation.  I am not sure why I have
come here.  I am killing time, not a threat to these children.
Perhaps I just want in some way to be seen, to pretend to
belonging in some social construct.  I do not belong here.
These are not my kin.  This city is mine for the haunting,
the hunting, the familiar holes for hiding.  Other cities have
been mine in other times, places.  Familiarity quickly takes
hold, practiced night after night.
The people, they belong to the city, maybe each other, or
simply their own paths.
Family does not apply to me.  I am no one.  I have no
officially sanctioned identity, no papers, no records, no
photographs.  I am no person.  I am a creature, a creation
of shadow and horror.  Yet here I mingle with mortal
children, indistinguishable to casual glance.
I stay distant from touch, conceal my secret deadness.
A small band moving out from the hub approaches where
I stand.  Most likely they mean no threat.  I take the
opportunity to back away into shadow, past the unmarked
boundary of this gathering.
The city and I maintain our rendezvous.  I am not attracted
to lights and noise of revelry, of nightlife at play.
I return to an eerie business district abandoned by day
work crowds, now silently at rest.  Strangely, a rabbit,
not more than a bunny, runs by, across the boulevard.
It disappears from my view behind an imposing building.
This is highly out of character for my experience of this area.
I don’t want it to be a symbol, a portent of unsettling
occurrences.
My life, such as it is, has been working, has a cogency,
a rhythm I can dance to, lose myself in, even pretend to
happiness when I let myself.  Because ironic gods are
always laughing at me, I know better than to allow myself
unwary happiness.
It is just a strange night, a bad moon, rampant paranoia.
This city and I see too much, have too little faith in illusion.
What we want is peace and sanity.
What we get is all these crazy people.