Almost Hour

Late night, but not too late for the father
to smash the plates. For his wife, made visible
by her nakedness. Sleepless is the neighbor boy
lighting a cigarette. It is now the half-lit hour,
hour of almostness. A cyclist passes by,
crushes the roadside lilies to spilled milk.
The streets are made marigold, damped
with lamps. The world is suddenly autumn.
Like a stranger in a long lost photograph,
I stand the correct distance from the present.