Some guess at once, that it is best to be loud,
and so in their choice, they bray great songs
about the edge of the town, topple cans of
garbage, flooding the streets until morning
as sleepy men and women rise to evidence
proving suspicions about their weary night,
blocking the progress of cars as they ramble
onward to work.
Nights like these end with officers of order
climbing out of cruisers with big bright lights
that attempt to combat the great noises
keeping good citizens from their desires
for rest and relaxation. Some end up behind
bars and others disappear into them, losing
the good men. Some will run forever, a number
never do try.
And yet, there are those inside with nostalgia,
respecting the efforts of mules, but sleeping in
hopes that they may drive the road at dawn
to join the force headed into the city where tall
hollow pillars scrape the sky that they might
stand a giant to hold up their offspring, forget
the braves who bray and give hope about the streets
and free the heart once more to seek and peer and
lean as a child might.
they play dumb,
stay low to the gound
and wait with open ears.
Some are hoping they might let the sleepers sleep,
let the brayers bray, let the players play their part,
as they rest their heads on cement floors, shuffle
their arms around, looking for a simple comfort,
and dream, waiting for the next day, when they might
run into cities, scream out with a silent force, yelling
comfort with the withdrawal of crucial noises, so all
mighty ones see in subtraction that as they ignore the
noises each other throws into passing halves of the day,
they run the risk of forgetting the notes are but parcels,
and soften their music.