Driving into Lascassas after midnight, when only the ghosts walk.
The glint of streetlights launches from the pavement,
a blank page to capture dreams
and past countenances in the moonlight.
The words you speak echo in the night and pass through blinking traffic lights;
As poems create themselves in flight.
Not like arriving at LaGuardia on a Sunday afternoon,
with its hallways filled with a thousand stories at every turn.
There is a rush and jumble to this world,
only small pockets of stillness swirl
to float a verse into the air.
Most often colliding in the face of a hurried elsewhere.
Almost never staying free and clear,
like driving through Lascassas after midnight
with soundless ghosts and streetlight glare.