three a.m. going home

it's an odd hour

to be out in,

to be on

the street wandering home.

hands in your pockets.

it's cold.

and the sky is confusing

with a smattering

of jagged stars..

it's a strange time

to be alive in,

a haunting

bite of hour, somewhere

between

night

and morning.

with no around,

but shadows,

a lost soul

on a stoop, cried out

and leaning

against a door.

there's

the siren, there's a dog

howling,

there's the sad lament

of a flugelhorn.