The Stroll

The sight of a car by the mailbox halts me.
It is parked with its headlights on.
I caress its unheatedness.
Things come to a halt just like this
at the fine line between the past and the undecided.
Looking vaguely down the darkly drenched pavement,
there I stay and befriend the absent hope
for a while until the illusive shadows
of the uneven asphalt start to dance and ask
if that be, too, with any hope.
Then I start to walk on
to my insignificant destination,
to the district of nothingness.
How cozy a refuge would this night turn out to be
to those who can shut their eyes
and rewind their vision.

2006.2.