Town Scene

Ryan King

The night – tinted blue by the
buzz of dull lights -
drips like yolk over:
the pitch of asphalt,
a worn yellow line,
a dozen barren trees at its side,
the vulturous streetlight lurking nearby.

Its glowing eye weary,
this scavenger perches above
a tuft of leaves,
the final note of autumn.
The branches are bending.
It has nothing but time.