PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I walk down the main street,

The sun setting behind the single story buildings to my right,

Little kids playing hopscotch and jump rope,

Dancing and playing in erupting fire hydrants,

Teenage boys sitting rebelliously on the curbs, smoking, telling tall tales of conquests,

Dropping their cigarette butts into the gutter, watching them slowly float away,

Mr Parkinson washes his cars as the light dims on the end of the week,

Opening up to the night where the streets begin to eagerly fill with the promise of the nights socialising,

The clock tower is the last to let go of the suns light,

And as the orange beams fade, the sound of the nearby ocean can be heard drumming on the rocks,



I watch the white tips of my black shoes step over the pavement,

Shop fronts decorated with Autumn leaves, littered with paper fliers,

I look to the darkening sky to watch the orange clouds force out their last remaining shades of light,

And then slip away into the darkness, where they will move on, un-noticed, to arrive in another town,

Already pretty girls, caked in make-up, sparingly clothed strut their wares, clicking their heels on the concrete earth,

I spare a rare smile for them as they walk past me, trying their best to look twenty-one,

Firemen come to tighten the bolts on the hydrants,

And the children collect their chalk and ropes, and return to their homes,

Looking once more up the street to watch the ?grown-ups? in all their night time glory,



Stars begin to peek out behind the misty haze of the clearing night sky,

And the moon in its third quarter, pushes its chest out to emit its best attempt at illumination,

Mascara and cologne begin to decorate the street at an alarming speed,

And soon the area is abuzz with atmosphere and alcohol,

Mr Parkinson dries the last drop of soapy water from his favourite mustang,

And returns to his office where his Ave Maria violin concertos will do their best to drown out the drum and bass of the wakening social spots,



I find myself at the end of the street, where the road narrows to a small path that leads to the beach,

The flicking sand from my steps glisten in the light,

I walk down to the ocean, letting the water dampen my white tips,

And look out onto the horizon where the moons light has set a b-line straight for me,

Walk down to my left, looking behind me to see my sunken footprints in the grey sand,

And again look out onto the horizon, where, again, the moons light heads straight for me,

My easily amused mind leads to a smile on my face as I reflect on how in both places the moons line hits me,

Tired from my walk I return to the main street,

Through the puddles of water left by the hydrant,

Over the chalk drawings of hop-scotch,

And past Mr Parkinsons shining red GT,

I turn to cross the street, look both ways, look down, to see the last cigarette butt flow away,

Then return to my lodge, avoiding the nights entertainment,

To instead lay in my bed and study the inside of my eyelids for eight hours or so.