From Mourning to Morning
-Eliot Kahlil Wilson
"I was the night man, told to dress crow-formal,/ to greet somberly, to point dismally,/ to look potentially sad/ or vaguely pious. No smiling and- like the airport- / no jokes. In the break room, aboce the veneered dresser/ where the shoe polish and pornography were kept,/ a laminated poster gave the rules in black magic marker"
I was the night moon, drawn in grey magic marker, or maybe white, painted above the treeline, vaguely angled, potentially falling, and dismally smitten with the clouds, bright, bright clouds, outlined in glowing sticks of reflection, crows of mist and shades of glow, greeting the comets above (what is above, really?) without telling them jokes, no room for humor when the smell of shoe polish and gasoline hovers over naked breasts and mouth-numbing powder. Potentially, I am sad. Doubtfully, I am pious. Hopefully, I am dreaming.
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