Lockport

Come summer,

night rises clear and cool,

slate blue, like water off Lake Eerie

and each house down the street

from yours clicks on a porch light.

Past the road sign, the parking lots

turn incandescent, all quiet,

but for the churn of tires

against the street gravel

and the now and again pop

of a firework in the west.

There is nothing for you here.

The small weight of your life

has followed you,

and you settle into the earth,

the small sounds of crickets, the

mint.

All around you, the fireflies rise

up and down, turn on and off,

like promises.

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