The man who lives alone

in the one-story house

at the end of this side of the road but one

sits in the chair on his front porch every night

after the sun sets. He reads

by the porch light and tonight,

looking up from his book, sees

two people standing in the space

where the glow from one streetlight fades

and the glow from the next has not quite begun.

He hears soft words. A throaty laugh.

He understands their need for dark,

for night. For secrets and denials.

He closes his book. He should go inside,

he thinks, so they can be alone,

and have this memory, this beginning

of something wonderful

all to themselves,

even if it’s destined to end.

But they don’t see him

alone in his chair,

their eyes are for each other, blinded

to everything else by – what –

infatuation? No.

Love? No.

Hope?

Yes.

He tasted that once. Just.

A lifetime ago. And yesterday.

They had sworn they would never need more

than those sweet, stolen moments in the arms of the night.

But, God, how he had yearned to kiss in the light.

Ron Bernas is an award-winning playwright and poet living and working in metropolitan Detroit.