This Moment: 9:55 P.M. May 8, 2012

The trees are a thalo green under the ambient street lights. I can feel the dog's urgency, their noses pressed against the door's glass plane as they wait for me to shut the car off and enter the house. Once inside I will refill their water dish and make them sit before I toss a marrow bone treat into their open jaws. A man with a voice made of gravel is worrying his refrain that he doesn't think he can make it on his own. I silence him and am left with the hum of the car's engine worrying it's own refrain. The sky is lamp black. If I were to paint it, I would pour a bottle of ink on paper and smear the surface with my hands. I can not bear the silence, not with recent news running itself weary on the hamster wheel. Three thousand more are needed to prevent civil war. Three thousand and the entire world against one man and his tanks plowing through neighborhoods. The tree to my left is motionless. The chimes are impotent lengths of pipe in the sullen night air. A young woman is singing of her flaws and entreating her lover to kiss her hips. All any of us want is a little tenderness.