the watchman

the watchman in his chair,
not asleep
but not awake, his flask
half full, thrice sipped,
stuck in the pocket of his
heavy coat.
the tilt of his cap
upon his thick brow,
furrowed with something
along dumbness
and youth. a job, he says.
a job to pay the bills,
to keep one in food,
and shoes. flickering his
flashlight at a black cat
who arches in the alley,
waiting behind a can
for prey, for rats.
he pares an apple with
his dull knife, letting
the skin fall
to the pavement, tossing
the core down the alley.
it's a long night,
this graveyard
shift, this rising of stars
and setting of moons,
this day within a night
for the watchman,
his ambitions, his dreams,
on hold.