nighthawks swooped and dived across the dusky sky
as we walked down sidewalks bathed in lamplight
strains of othello’s jealousies drifted across the street
but we kept our own council and conversation
why are tragedies so ridiculous?
how does art inspire us?
is it hopper’s stark interplay of light and dark
or monet’s muted lilies that awakens your muse?
what are the rules of the game?
so strangers speak on summer evenings when the sun has gone to bed
no poetic whispers or impassioned soliloquies
just ordinary words, rambling uncertainly
forming friendships in the art-filled darkness
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