Eleven in the Evening

December 10, 2008
The hour is disturbed and chaotic
Like marbles spilling all over the floor.
The hour is tires squealing; passing

curfew, rushing to get home.
The hour is moving quickly; lonesome

like being deserted in a desert.
The hour is nestling into a mystery

book by the fire.
The hour is a couch and blanket

instead of bats and balls.
The hour is cops sitting behind signs

waiting for the speed racers to fly by.
The hour is the screams and fights

starting up from the drinks

that were passed around.
The hour is doors slamming and feet

stomping from the drama

that entered their lives that day.

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