The same blind alley, familiar in its dark and
dank, the piddling puddles of street light, the
glimpse of an apartment where no movement
is ever detected. A short ellipsis on the mythic
walk, a pause between back there and home
which our hero would hie. No rock and a hard
place, ‘tho once a hydrant had leapt out and
bruised his thigh. Never were any monsters
met nor sirens either unless one counted the
homeless hydra that once offered to show him
a good time. Just an uncanny route between
tavern and domicile.
No, mostly this strait offered still, calm passage;
often the blue moon would hang ahead in the
east to guide him. He only had to walk towards
it as it rose into the night. In the morning when
he arose it would still be hanging there in the
west, heading home to its daily rest.
poetastrophy 