JD DeHart writes

A Night for Neighbors

A slicing conflagration

that brings purity, or else a way

of filling the night air with smoke.

Later, ebony marks up the wall.

We arrange ourselves like careful

patrons on the lawn, watching the

spread of flames. Someone should

call, if no one has.

Someone did. Darkness is dressed

in rapid surges of blaring light,

siren sound.

Anchored in our restless search

for the next best program to fill our eyes

with, the shouts from outside woke

in us a primitive sensibility.

All of a sudden, we realized we 

still had neighbors. More than

just faceless voids who echo

hello and how-are-you emptily.

It was awkward, like realizing someone

else had been in the same room 

for years, never really noticed.

Hi there, you in the corner. What’s

your name?

Or someone had been trying to get 

our attention for nearly a decade,

and we had only lolled our heads

in the air.

Oh, my. Were you there all this time?

Suddenly, we were one. Or at least

pretending to feel that way until

the lights were gone and we returned

to our channel flipping routine. 

The Bicentennial Mural [detail] -- Bob Hieronimus