We leave the porch light on.
Sometimes I think I see the moon
and other assorted moths
flutter around it.
But, eventually, the pull of the stars,
though further off,
is strong enough
to draw them away from our step.
Out beyond us,
past even the Circle K,
space is burning distance
like a high school driver
destroying rubber on any Friday night.
Milky traffic lights click on and off,
directing travellers deeper and deeper into the dark.
Now they're gone;
the newsboy delivers the day.
Perhaps the space visitors
had nothing to say to us
and wanted to abduct nothing more valuable
than our dreams.
Or we've forgotten how to listen
to their message.