The Lamppost

Neva Wilder

Built to guard a kingdom,

she alone can see the most.

Ivy tendrils curling up her

auburn wooden post.

 

Tiny bugs with blurry wings,

they flock to taste her light.

Once the streets were helpless, now

she watches through the lonely night.

 

She sees men, who after dark

collect to deal their greed.

She shines her light upon their fists

and hovers as they bruise and bleed.

 

Sometimes she sees lovers.

Down below they seem to fly,

high on new beginnings,

velvet cases. But why do they cry?

 

Through the years she watches

dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn.

She sees the old man smoke his pipe

until the man and smoke are gone.

 

Soon her eyes are clogged with moths,

her dented light is blinking.

Soon her screws have loosened

from her constant working, constant thinking.

 

Her weathered wood still welcomes

tangle weeds and rusty nails,

pinning to her posters

of the missing cats with crooked tails.

 

Where did they go? Ask her.

She knows which cracks have hidden dimes.

For she’s seen many things,

but she is old

and she is out of time.