AT FOUR O’CLOCK, OR FIVE

At four o’clock, or five,

the neons leave the city to the dawn.

It comes, silent and spare,

swept in by cleaners’ brooms.  Taxis

are once more busy; the streets stretch

and lengthen every sound from the warming motors.

White light spreads over the white cement;

beneath the bridges huddled sleepers stir,

turn over, and sleep again.

Growing slowly heavy and opaque the white light

spreads over the commonplace of dogs

inspecting garbage.

Carbined watchmen nodding at warehouse doors,

blind capiz windows.

Footsteps drag on the wooden stairs.

His sanded lids, thick tongue seek

Comfort in a pillow.  Soon the reeking breath

has filled the room, and once more darkens it

against the dawn.

                                                                -  Ma. Lorena Barros

                                                                   undated; unpublished