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Nox, the wakeful
goddess of night
brought him, doubled-
over Titan,  to this un-
enlightened place.

Tables and lives here,
empty for so long, have
forgotten their wares,
shells of former glory.

At this hour,  all dogs
sleep, covered by fleeced
ignorance.  The late night howls
have abated to the whines and whimpers of scratched dreams.
Even Schröd’er’s cat lies dead–asleep
on the communal trash heap.

“Just follow the dollarless
cigarette butts,” She said.
In the twilight
of this neighborhood,  they easily
make out, like signals
on the rails to nowhere,
or was it somewhere?

The house unmistakable
as penny ashes litter
the yard,  reflecting
the glory of once
mighty men.
Three plastic chairs
porched like fine china.
Totally beneath him,
yet completely suiting.
“Who’s John Galt?”
he mutters, shrugs,
and throws his feet up
like he owns the place.
He lights a dollar smoke
to draw in
the awaited dawn,
embers, blazing.