Late Night March

Sodium yellow searchlights stand,
Spaced ten feet apart.
My feet move at mark time,
Down the pitch black valley-street.

Buildings barricade one side, the other
Flanked by the oppressive
Presence of a thousand eyes,
Perched high on telephone poles;
Metal wires strung post to post,
Like electric fence on a farmer’s field.

I fancy myself a tabby cat,
Prowling power-lines for a free meal.
Leaping as a trapeze artist,
Feathers between bloodied teeth.

From above I see the city’s peaks
Dwarfed by the mountains
And the flat farmyard fields.
From here I feel the wind-chill
Of my supposed freedom.
My hairs grow rigid and spiked.

James Cole