the streetlight {a poem}

The streetlight blinks on
in the 5am January dark when
even the moon is hiding
somewhere behind the flat matte black
the black blank canvas the winter clouds have made.

The streetlight is the only light.
The sidewalk, curb, grass, and pavement in its dominion of light
are tinged
with the color of margarine.
That yellow stick.
That unnatural fatty glow.

No one else is out yet on this 10 below morning.

And so she steps into the spotlight
to do her one magic trick.

Inhale the frosted, bracing air.
Exhale.
And the 10 below air has been transformed: it's 98.6 air.
The heat of life, hanging noticeably
like a summer cloud
in the yellow spotlight.

The crowd goes wild at the beauty of it.
She bows and
the streetlight blinks off.