The park at night

The light falls slowly over the park

on the last joggers on their last round home

the obedient dog who was told he shouldn't bark

the traffic dying out in one final flash of chrome

So it is when most fall back to the safety of their home

that this here vagabond tramps back to the park

though he's tired of knowing that all paths lead to roam

he lends the benches and the grass to all until dark

Yet if someone loiters and paces, they don't deserve a snark

not even a throat cleared – who doesn't like to be alone –

he picks a discarded newspaper, watches the stars disembark

relishing the tingles in his neck as all his senses turn into gloam

He smiles at the prospects of the comfort of foam

he luckily excavated not two blocks from the park –

if the night is to be judged by its spangling dome

he knows his dreams will be as smooth as beech bark

Twenty years on the street and he hasn't lost the spark

some have gone mad, some have gone to feed the loam –

we all have an expiry date, as we all have a postmark

but he believes it better we forget about the metronome

Huffing on a stub he listens to the silence over the park

with enough booze and grub to outlast the night he calls home.