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.

Who knows?