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Journey Home at Night

Moon-wet beneath my shoes, the stone slabs glisten.
The distant lights wink orange isolation.
I pass through fields of tarmac, nourished by
A shapelessness of black and birdless sky.

The petrol station sleeps for these few hours:
Who wants to buy spent papers, dying flowers?
My shadow looms ahead as I grow shorter.
Post-nuclear air I breathe tastes like cold water.

In tinted blocks the corridors are dead:
So empty, lonely, people-less, unfed.
Unseen, I want to dance against this void
Of human works, intact and yet destroyed.

I see wire fencing, shops, a still parade
That testifies to all my race has made.
I am the last alive, spared out of pity,
Till blue-pink dawn repopulates the city.