Stopover in Orange Hours

End of the line

And that’s the last bus

Next one’s tomorrow 

But who’s to say when that’ll be

We have a strict dresscode

Informally enforced

We have plenty of loaners 

Pick one

That’ll suit you just fine

The streets are awash

In soft orangey glow

Like setting suns

Or smiling gourds

Casting shadows on homes

With peculiar geometry

And never mind the translucent gazes

From attic windows

Or the occasional mob

of giggling children 

as they race into the fog

Especially at midnight

You may notice

The cats are all black here

Occasionally calico 

And yes they are watching

And they know more than you

One may act more familiar

And ride on your shoulder

Divulging insights

That you’ll forget once you leave

But all the while

The cooling air holds you

Carrying a well crafted bouquet 

Of warm smoky fires

Wet fallen leaves

Sweet with cider and cloves

And comfortable clothes

And you may hear

The pitter patter 

Of drizzling rain in the woods

Mixed with light cackles

Or seductive whispers of your name

While white and blue moonlight

Accentuates the spindly fingers

Of naked trees

And similar dancing

Best to avoid

Unless that’s your thing

But you might not come back

And you borrowed that outfit

So…

Best stay on Main Street

Or a few cul-de-sacs

And in gray comforting day

The kind smiles of folk

Clad in overalls, flannels,

and homespun sweaters 

Carrying covered dishes

And mason jars of various nectars

Greet you

Sharing the filling of bellies

And the sweet tang of home

With handshakes

And lingering hugs

Of melancholic parting

Before you watch our town

From the rear bus window

Be swallowed in mist and snow

As you hold the flat, dry hand

Of oak and birch in solace