Open for the Night

Coffee and a donut at 8 p.m. are enough

to roll another night over on a plain cheek

facing anywhere without a clock or a mirror:

an open fireplace with orange logs

or a dirt path in the evening, splitting trees 

mourning the passing sun, chasing dark solitude.

It’s a store-bought night, made in a factory with peanuts

where employees on the assembly line ignore each other

voicelessly outline manifestos while they continue sorting

the apple fritters, squeezing cows flat for my coffee

which seems appropriate: I am revived, loving

assorted park-goers in a city I’ve never been to.

There is a man reading dietary information on his soda

near a dog that circles, circles, stops, finally safe

while a family passes with a child on a backpack-style leash.

I don’t see the spider on my leg initially, but when 

I do, I can only recognize its shapeliness, as my eyes 

follow it down my shin, to the pavement, immutable.