You've been whispering to yourself,

Like a radio turned almost to quiet,

Occasionally humming a tune

To give yourself comfort

 

Like the cat purring in the house alone.

 

You're the empty city

On the long weekend in summer,

It's empty escalators riding up and down

It's traffic lights changing for no one.

 

You're the townspeople

Who won't leave in the face of floods

And mudslides,

Filled with mad sweet resolve.

 

You're the moth against the blinking bulb,

 

The ghost haunting the abandoned library.