An old man rests on his stoep –
skin, wrinkled like linen, covered in blue overalls –
watching the sunset through dusty windows,
a red eye falling off a purple sky.
a street is littered with dirty children
enjoying their youthful exuberance;
running. screaming. care-free in their ignorance
toward darkness creeping up the horizon.
soon, they’ll be called inside coffins they call homes
and light will fall into night
in the blink of an eye
they’ll sleep and hope that
there is a tomorrow