The blanket that protected me
from the midday sun bouncing off the white wall
that faces my apartment now dangles from a nail
beside the window in the door.
It's after 7, and the sun has drifted west
away from its favorite high noon bank shot
bouncing its glare at the window
where the blanket protected my eyes.
Off duty now, its dark colors in draping folds
which in the dark you can mistake for a giant bat
it's a comforting sight from where I sit
my time-worn recliner facing the door
where now the staccato passage of motorists
flicks across the narrow gap between the window edge
and the white wall's corner
zipping by from somewhere to somewhere.
A sobering sight from where I sit
without a clue as to who the people are
or if they are happy or anxious or sad or what--
or with which ones unseen killers are riding along.