Browns Mill road has come to a close.
Ahead lies the wavering torch of sunset
and orange blossoms of Homestead
crawling upward along the fabric of twilight
to trade war stories with the furnace hardened
coke oven crescent of the moon,
shy and peering into the black river depth's
emptied stage. "Am I on?"
Not yet. It is still Wednesday, after all and
we are still gathering our breath, but stay warm,
intermission lasts but so long and
the stars are already tuning their ensemble.
