A lamppost named Mark

by Paul Newell Reaves

II.

“You’ll never catch me now, coppers.”
A composite ill-suited to serial towns,
the Lamppost hobbled to the intersection
and held up his thumb to flag the hovering train.

On that darkest of nights as the moon first waxed,
this lamppost couldn’t see the man wearing all black.
With a rose et al. law-stick,
the Lamppost’s arms froze
to the crosswalk—
that poor, poor lamppost.
You know he was born with only 
how much time.

And that was the end
— unless I’ve misremembered,
which happens now and then.

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