It is still there, in evening’s dusk of a late August,
the second-floor window where my friend’s father
would sit to watch the Summers’ Street roll out
its tableaux vivants of un-staged occurrences.
The window is always dark yet frames the memory
of his face lit by the dimness of a fifty’s street lamp.
I’ve found a bench across the street,
facing the long-closed doors of Bruno’s bar and grill,
from where the brawls and arguments could spill out
on to the sidewalk any night of the week except Sunday.
I look again to the window, a void into a darker night,
his private box above the stage of the evening street.
And I ask what joins the shadows and echoes of our yesterdays
to the unknowable and eternal night of our tomorrows?
Victor Densmore
Hardwick
