After Dark, by Ellie Altman

After Dark

Relishing permission to sleep,
I wrestle the day to surrender

the pulled curtains, narrow
the second-floor window view

into a nearsighted blur
where Queen Street meets Riverside Terrace—

a three-way, catty-cornered crossroads
under the streetlamp’s glow.

An invitation lit warmly—
dusk’s sweet spot.

I prospect for a dog-walker,
strolling lovers, a smoker,

or a teenager escaping chores
to write a storyline with a star cast

entering from darkened wings
to take center stage.

No one arrives.
I turn toward my side

of the bed, resisting the emptiness
threatening to eclipse me,

tamping out the day’s garden spectrum—
pastel coreopsis to saturated crimson crocosmia—

and the crackling crisp air,
enough to brighten my mood

through night’s falling.
I slip into my sheets,

awaiting morning’s open arms
to lift me.

In 2014 Poet Ellie Altman retired as an arboretum director and began writing. Her poems have appeared in The Broad River Review, The Shore, and Gyroscope. Her first chapbook, Within Walking Distance, will be published fall 2022. Altman has attended poetry workshops led by Sue Ellen Thompson, Barbara Crooker, Jeff Coomer, and Ishion Hutchinson.