Sitting on the steps outside
Smoking a cigarette at night
It is after twelve am undenied
A bit chilly on the fingers alright
I hear coyotes, they howl and cry
A dog pacing, back and forth inside
Crickets are quiet, to my delight
Only a few chirp, others just hide
A car engine in the distance, rides
Fingers are getting too cold to type
That is the end, as this poem subsides
©schizology
S