Unfulfilled...

It’s seven ‘o’ clock.
We’re on a neon-lit street.
The day slides off as a grimy thought
From granite window sills
Of resplendence selling
Many splendored dreams –
Grander than the ghettoes
Where our stories breed.

It’s seven fifteen
We’ve walked from here to there –
A portion of our lives –
Searching for an answer
But we do not say
What we need to say
And thrash our tales
Around a softness
We wish to feel.

It’s eight ‘o’ clock.
This is all that you can permit.
The last bus to your house
Is revving, ready to leave.
And now we’re left clinging
To the moment
When the clock strikes seven,
When the street is neon-lit again,
When the evening gropes for metaphors
For faint hopes glowing within you, me, us.

© Dan Husain
July 28, 2005