Behind the Restaurant

In night between two buildings,

weeping fabric, limp over the clothesline,

sagging like a hammock amidst palms,

bound to lifeless brick walls.

Beneath their sodden sleeves,

a door explodes with life,

unleashing amber light, flooding

upon damp cobblestones.

Still silence broken.

Now brisk footsteps

carry leftovers

to their deathbeds.

Encased in plastic

blacker than a pupil’s lens,

eyed as it falls,

mixing ripe with rotten. Rubbish.

The chef adjusts his hat

and returns to golden rays,

grasping the door

eclipsing the sun

and leaving the stars.

Hawley Rann