Night Memoir

You never know when
a word or two might stick;
come creeping through an open
window in these small hours.

It’s a nagging of letters,
where each tone follows
a broken rhythm—void of any
rhyme or reason except
it’s own shuffle towards a point
where one calls to another.

It’s mostly artefacts and
driftwood now; spoken
sotto voce in a mulatto dialect
that is oddly familiar and
sometimes understood by another.

But I’m marking time here;
falling over myself in the
pursuit of another cadence—to
stumble on a new meaning in the snow.

©️Orion Foote, 2021