Sleepy Brooklyn by Gary Beck
The streets of time are silent.
Across the expanse of Brooklyn
a midnight silence hangs.
The sly noises of late residents
trying to conceal after-hours wantonness
rasp clumsily on somnolent streets.
The slumbering residential streets echo
dying footsteps of a reckless night wanderer,
returning after his fellows have gone to bed.
The distant blare of a car horn
temporarily stirs rem addicts,
who recede into oblivion.