Someone is singing

It’s a Friday morning.

The fog rolling in thick

across the Common.

Parallel lamps buzz down the streets,

and though I cannot see her,

someone is singing.

-

The bus firmly crowded.

The walk risky with wind

chilling the damp-bone,

and though I cannot see her,

someone is singing.

-

Ghost cars waiting dully.

Their form rippling in mist

and though I cannot see her,

someone is singing.

-

It’s a Friday morning,

and though I cannot see her,

someone is singing.

-L.J. Moore