IN MY BEDROOM, MIDNIGHT

by Ian Haight

 

 

No open fields, but beige walls
of a building
falling into poverty.
Glance near the window’s upper edges:
black outlines of mountains
peaks of poplars
above a city graveyard.

The cat that ate our chicks
sometimes prowls
beneath bushes,
but if he walks below,
eyes lamp-lit, he edges behind
a parked car’s tire.
So, my four-year-old son,
as you sit in my window,
what are you looking at?

 

 

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