13th Hour Love Song

This is the slow time. The sun cools
its heels on the linoleum. A woman
leans out her window and rubs
the last bits of daylight from her eyes.

This is the easy time. A man takes
his time on his way home
from work. A plane fails to reappear
from behind a cloud. A thrush tucks
his head between dark wings; silent,
he has nothing more to add to the day.

This is the time, my love, to discard
the detective novel. No weapon
will be discovered, no motive revealed.
The murderer forever gets away.

The party is over and the guests
are waiting outside. The musicians
re-tune their instruments and hum songs
they never got a chance to play.
It seems no one wants to believe
it is over. Careful rows of champagne
flatten in deep, crystal glasses.

Jamie Wasserman

If you've any comments on this poem, Jamie Wasserman would be pleased to hear from you.