JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Imagine

a darkening city, tired

from blood shedding

wasting at the sleeves

a tired angel

 

A Chopin nocturne is playing

over the rooftops

as we remember,

explosions, car bombs,

burning, incendiary music,

but it’s not Rome

 

And perhaps this is

a more appropriate way,

soft sad fingers

across the skyline

nocturne fingers touching

silhouettes of buildings

one by one

turning the lights off

 

Maybe it is an angel,

you know the one I mean,

playing this nocturne

across an emptying cityscape

the last ghost

watching from a rooftop

as the lights go out

 

From broken window panes

in a city without ears

yet somehow, still

with a posthumous echo