The sun is a guillotine
dropping its blade,
an arbitrary executioner.
It makes us followers of ourselves
and has us emerge around corners before us.
One afternoon, walking down
a parched avenue, you slip
into a bar named Hopper’s.
The trees across the way
are fidgeting on the barroom floor.
You sit in a booth, your glass drips
and shimmers like a cave crystal.
You sit in black and white
as the jukebox plays a song
then the shadow of a song.
The trees do this and that
just leaves on the dance floor.
She wants to lie down in your shadow,
she’s so in love with you
that night-time brings an irrational
fear of what shadows can do.
The sun beheaded three men
in the bar that day
and shadows grew
to ridiculous lengths.
poem by Janet Rogerson, online with the author's permission.