Ripper

3 a.m., and streets are quiet;
all but the "plink" of water dripping
from the bridge into puddles
I can see in the moonlight.

That light shines in veins
on the black walkway,
and if I were dreaming
I'd think I hit the mother lode.

It is mid-spring,
a comfortable evening,
albeit humid -
which makes me shiver.

A lone cicada
in a tree outside a shop
shakes out a maraca beat,
but no one joins in.

I'm unsure why
my heart is pounding so,
when all I seek
is peace.

A ridiculous longing
grips me,
and I half expect you
to walk out into the moonlight.

But, I know I can't conjure you,
so I stay under the bridge,
reluctantly experiencing
solitude.