Photo by George Hodan.
How lonely sounds the swinging gate,
In a motionless parking lot,
At half-past three in the morning-
Rocking back and forth, wailing
In a wind that will not whistle.
It is waiting for the sun,
The robins, the cars, and for me
To have the heart to come to it
And lock its noisy sorrow.
I am obliged to do so, for both of us.
prince nothing 