Another World

Here, the night speaks with many voices.
One, she is an old man, watching a fuzzy TV
And slurping chicken noodle soup. Two,
She is the reporter in a dark blue
Suit, blond hair falling smartly by
The shoulder-pads. Three, she is the mother
Who scolds with a spoon,
Pushing the little black fingers away
From the plate, saying, ‘Eat with a fork.’

The night lives in a very small
House with the sounds of cars all around
Changing lanes, turning constantly curves:
For they are everywhere in a hurry, riding into the
Moon. But you see, she keeps her curtains
Closed. And through them you’ll make out
A flicker-faint, electric light

And hear the voices of the night.