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Front Stoop
by Tom Sheehan

From here night is the universal
shade, only stars wheeling
their slow orbits through trees,
clocking against the mountain top.

A skunk now and then joins late hours
and meanders nose-down like a hobo
scavenging for one half cigarette.
A wide echelon of aircraft

settles down into and rises out of
Boston hanging red below the horizon;
passengers carry London or Paris
or Dublin dirt imbedded in their shoes,

move handshakes still in their hands,
freeze images behind their eyeballs.
They do not know how they are counted
upon, how they flesh up much of dreams

and ease all these nights into place.
Even the moon is a swift companion,
carrying its torch from limb to limb
of this sidewalk maple tree splendid

in its soft flames, its gold fire.
Some nights, perhaps in the right
corner of August, the moon explodes
all its mystery on leaf and limb,

shatters a coin collection at bare feet,
colors each step with tomorrow.
The minted buttering of such nights
spills heavy weights on shoeless feet,

throws its own shadow into concrete.
Under such lights we are bright naked;
particles of bone are deeply touched,
tremble, and know the sudden absolutes

choice moons give away for nothing.
We have sat here half way past dawn,
fending insects and rodents, and shadows
from the naked elegance of one maple tree.

 Other articles by Tom Sheehan:

• Old Quebec Barn at Recall

• Of Canadian Émigrés

• Bar Harbor Passage

• Late Night Guitar