Light and dark in Baltimore (by a Charles Village poet)

Light

by Michael Fallon, originally published in the Loch Raven Review

From one end of the block to the other,the burnt-out streetlights leaned into shadow,

the rows of hedges, the blackened doorways,

camouflage for the mugger and the thief,

the houses up to their roofs in darkness.

For 7 days in a row, we called the city.

Busy signals. So

and So away from her desk.

A recorded message announcing the hours 

the office was open. Imagine

the answering machine, a Pandora's Box

full of angry voices.

No wonder we heard nothing.

Then, at 3 in the morning,

the sound of an insistent engine.

Outside my window and 

below, a white truck straddles the lanes,

a huge metal elbow bolted to the back.

A man in the cab dismounts,

hefts a box from the bed,

climbs into a pulpit at the long end of the arm,

jiggles a switch,

raises himself slowly

as the elbow un-bends,

hovers high over the rain slick pavement,

the truck idling beneath him.

He crinks a flashlight against his cheek,

unscrews something,

lifts the lid off the deadened lamppost.

Leans over.

Fumbles a moment.

Straightens up.

There is the gleam of glass

as he lifts it out of the box

and twists it?

Wires it?

Jams it home. 

The light stutters and 

zaps on.

And I see him,

his black face under the plastic helmet,

his orange reflector vest,

as the elbow closes slowly

and he lets himself down, then

heaves something over the tailgate.

I see the bed is heaped with boxes. Some stacked,

Some tossed in at angles,

For the light bulbs he has been changing! 

He drives off leaning slightly forward over the wheel.

The sleepy sound of his engine

dims among the shapes of houses;

while behind him, at 3:15, the length of the street

shines in soft rain.