Where the Streetlights Go to Pray

At dusk, the city buttons up its rusted overcoat.

And every lamppost clears its throat to hum a softer note.

The halos lean like tilted crowns on heads of steel and clay—

I swear I’ve seen them bow their necks where streetlights go to pray.

~~

They do not ask for thunderbolts or glitter from the stars;

They ask that lovers find their keys and make it home from bars.

They ask that buses wait a breath, that sirens find their way,

that someone’s name is learned by heart—where streetlights kneel to pray.

~~

A moth becomes a choirboy with wings of a paper hymn.

He circles like a stubborn hope that refuses to grow dim.

The puddles hold cathedral glass in gasoline ballet,

and tires play the organ pipes—soft rain keeps time to pray.

~~

A kid with a backpack twice his size rehearses not to run.

his shadow long as futures are when school and fear are one.

The amber cones of gentler law stand guard beside the grey.

petitioning the ordinary—quiet, steady, pray.

~~

An old man feeds the alley cats a sermon made of crumbs;

His hands are rough with yesterdays, his coat remembers drums.

The lamp above him bows again as if to bless his tray—

The smallest sacraments belong to nights that choose to pray.

~~

I’ve bent beneath their humble crowns on evenings I came apart.

When newsprint bled and windows had a tremor like my heart.

They warmed the coins inside my fist, made oxygen less clay,

and lifted my stubborn chin—like ushers do—“this way.”

~~

So if you think the city’s faith is sold to neon lies,

Come walk the block where asphalt learns to look you in the eyes.

Where cones of honeyed, fallible light turn darkness into day,

and common metal keeps the watch for anyone to pray.