Tuesday Night Commute

That cataract haze,
just past sundown.

March is shaking winters hand

Only a cuff of moon above,
gloriously perfect.

The switch of street lights,
a sodium pink,

now the day has truly gone.
Rushes of brick fronts

and guard dog teeth of a rose bush,
dout the work day’s wick.

Porch light phare,
teases with promise,

of the bless’ed comfort waiting.
The loving.

Familiar veins on the concrete path,
the map to guide me home.