Last Light, This Light

The water ran,

plate in my hand.

Just watching, then.

The sun, it slipped,

behind the edge

of Mr. Henderson's gray roof.

A yellow, sick,

over the wet, blacktop street.

Not gold, not even amber.

Just tired.

Then the streetlights.

A low hum, too early.

That flat wash,

on empty, slick pavement.

Made the puddles look like oil.

Thick, unmoving.

Nothing good

would start now.