by Roger Singer


Fall back under early stars.
The sea moves reflective waves,
pulsing onto sand, building like
engines of thunderous clouds.
Streams of people merge into
temporary spaces; strangers on
corners, a brief land of shoulders
staring straight ahead.  A steady rain
clears the dust.  Afternoon finds a
place before dusk.  Footsteps
continue.  Everyone owns a portion
of passing shadows.  Night stars
open with a hollow roar.


It’s a train car without wheels.
A gathering for
the subculture.  An information
center of new and yet to happen.
It’s a stopover between this
and that.  Art deco, vinyl and
stainless steel.  Formica countertops
and a bathroom without a lock.
A jukebox with failed neon’s struggles
in the corner.  Eggs and coffee all day.
Smudged doors and stained windows.
Unwashed faces.  Newspapers stacked
by the door.  Table whispers, tired
eyes, advice without guilt.  Alone finds
a stool or booth.  No reservations



It’s my shoreline.  A place of
footsteps and whispers, high clouds,
blue cobalt skies, forever horizon;
it’s a song I live.  A moment brings me in,
an hour holds me tight.  It’s a place
without time, without changing, it holds
the strength of me.  I am the shadow of here.
I stand on the edge of myself, the backside
of the beginning.  The escape with a forever
door.  Rain or sun changes nothing from
where I stand.