A flashlight, on, dropped in a borrow pit
outside this tavern at the edge of town,
taps bottom and sends forth its fierce white beam
for a few seconds. Now short-circuited,
the metal cylinder begins to wait
for underwater archaeologists
or, at the least, some magnet-wielding kid.
Depth anchors night. Eight feet up, shoals of minnows
float, then dart like fingerlings of sun
beneath reflected lunar maria.
Dark hours calve, so, day split open, dawn
illuminates an archipelago
of paint jobs in the lot at Waffle House.
Inside: black coffee, with fluorescent shine.