A monthly sojourn on a dreary night.

————

The subtle brightness of the light

shown through the dark, unstormy night

of steady rain, chilled summer air,

with hardly any people there

who might traverse by light of day

the street on which the town hall lay.

One woman with her child in hand

endured the cold by harsh demand

of drunken spouse returning late,

whose temperament would not abate

till Sunday noon, or later yet,

and they must leave, though tired and wet.

Although the way was damp and dark

she knew the route well—through the park,

across the square, the bakery shop,

where in daytime she would stop,

meant they were almost half-way there;

the comfort of her sister’s care.

They’d pass the coach beside the lamp

where cabby made his evening camp,

awaiting those who’d pay their way

and help him keep his debts at bay.

He knew them well and touched his cap—

they had no fare to break his nap.

A lonely gendarme came in view

and smiled at them, although he knew

they wouldn’t stop tonight to talk—

the weather forced a swifter walk—

but he would watch for one more block

until they turned beneath the clock.

Her sister, wakened where she couched,

gave warm embrace to both and vouched

she’d care for them, just as before—

and on their next trip to her door.

They knew her husband, loved and dear,

would toast each payday, twelve per year.

By Ken Gosse

From: United States

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