At that hour just before the temporal break in darkness,
I rose to walk the streets in solitude.
Stopping, I stood with one foot on each side
of the two yellow lines:
The division of West Alameda Avenue.
I watched lights blink from red, to green, to yellow,
And back to red.
A single car sped by,
The only proof that time, too, was passing me.
But in the otherwise silence,
I looked up in amazement at the stars,
Shining so, in spite of the artificial lighting,
And my thoughts drifted back on a certain young man.
I saw a tall, lanky figure
Walking the same avenue as I,
Passing by the world without conviction that he deserved anyone to give a damn
About where he was and where he plotted his course.
Even though we walk the same street,
He walks on one side of the yellow lines,
And I, on the other.
And though i look upon him from my lane with such a longing,
We will never converge;
Like two parallel lanes,
Divided by each's yellow barred reality.