At Night

we don’t go out, but others do
the pink-faced possum, the rump heavy ‘coon,
the barn owl and its fumfing wings.

we don’t go out because none of the usual people
we ignore are out there to comfort us,

we don’t go out because we would have to rely on other
senses –
the pads of our shodden feet,
our dulled smell – echo-locating scents
our deafened hearing unaccustomed to sprigs of silence.

we don’t go out because its cold and wet and
there are vast spaces, of death, of anonymous births,
of daily regrets, of ancestors and progeny vying for the little attention
we have left.

we don’t go out because we would have no definite destination,
like those loitering stars, grinning at our habits.

we don’t go out because only demons and ruffians and the homeless
are to be found.

we don’t go out because of the opposite of claustrophobia,
a vast presence,
we cannot easily dismiss,
and a mutual shame over the loss of voices (frog for one).

we don’t go out because we might scream and howl like
wolves and banshees,
grieving souls who’ve lost a great friend.

we can’t go out or ….could we?