Back in my apartment
with all the old memories,
it is difficult to sleep.
I walk towards the window
to look out onto the street.
Looking for a poem, a sign of life
….. something, anything.
Somebody told me
I would find life on the street, a rhythm.
But maybe it is too early.
I can’t watch any longer,
and I know there is silence behind me.
It was good and dark, perfect.
A Wandering Poet 