Midnight, a December night
A cool and crisp winter night
I sit, my legs upon the cold cement
The driveway outside my house
My back to the garage door
A pair of creeping centipedes my only company.
The pall of night consumes the quiet suburb
As sounds of humans die and sounds
Of crickets chirping, dogs barking,
Traffic humming in the distance
And the doleful desperate cry
Of a grieving mourning dove.
The street is lined with lights on lampposts
Homes are still, devoid of motion
And I am still too.
In the dark, a vampire bites me
Sinks a single needle fang in me
I do not see her, only feel her
And see the mark upon my hand.
Rising, now, I see the culprit.
Winged assassin of the night.
Parasite with a Napoleon complex
Common even in Florida winters.
Cloudless deep and starry sky
The shade of black and cerulean hue
Like specks of dust on an otherwise perfect antique quilt.
Orion watches over me.
Why does nighttime air always, always, ALWAYS
Smell sweeter than the air of day?