By Dean Brooks I’m not drawn by the moon, howling But coerced by the fingertips of the loneliest hour Where fears are underplayed—cigarettes Are not a threat, but a companion, as is the soft hum Of the streetlight (for my purposes, the imitation moon), Before the bully sun Elbows its way through the sky This isn’t the still-up night, A loud Friday at the bar to prepare For a missed morning, but The already-awake night Hovering in the cusp of dawn Dark enough that, if I were still a child I would be afraid, and as an adult, Am, though in a different, definite regard– Closing the door with minimal noise To let the mother robin Ten feet above me Sleep without intrusion Dean…