BOB DAVIS ART
Darkness Falls
On a cool October morning
shadows fall from the sky and a new darkness
has arrived
in the suburban enclave I oversee in my time sitting
at the coffeehouse window, the streetlife normally vibrant
in the morning sunshine on a weekday, while I’m
unencumbered
by work or anything more pressing than carefully melting
a cube of sugar into a broad cup of cappuccino,
a good dollop of foam peering over the edge of the cup.
Deep seated fears
run loose among the real estate agents walking by
in their polyester pant suits and stamped name tags,
quickly stepping over the edge of the shadow
that moves steadily, slowly, deeply, along the sidewalk,
crossing each crack one at a time, being swallowed
deep into the dark recesses. A foursome from the public
golf course
abandon their cart and are found wandering
past 1713 Elm Street, with their putters held high, all
side bets are off.
Powder blue minivans
stall at the light, and the moms let loose their nylon
bags
of soccer balls out into the street, balls bouncing
past the donut shops, and the kids in their kelly green
soccer uniforms
look up into the sky, their eyes hurt from this morning’s
haze.
The formerly blue sky used to be filled with puffy white
clouds
and white trails from airplanes zipping across to the
coast;
but now the edge of the sky becomes visible and a
helicopter
skirts along the bright line separating the newly arrived shadow
from the overbright sunsplashed brilliance of the earth we
used to know,
in what is fast becoming a distant past of light and
cheer.
I
sit quietly watching as more people look up, as their eyes turn red
with
fear, black with anger, and dull gray in the end, passing out of range,
darkened
for the days to come, easing the transition,
the
totality of the world come crashing down on them.
Death surfaces
from the concrete pavement beneath their feet, a lifetime
melts away,
and still the clock keeps ticking and the fluorescent
lights keep humming
and the espresso machine keeps hissing, steaming, making
coffee drinks
for the people who will no longer be entering the shop,
the shadow now
having passed miles along and the whole city now dark with the news.
I call home
and the phone picks up and Hap tells me he's OK,
the shadow
passed overhead 20 minutes ago and now
the TV says there is nothing to worry about, and we
believe it,
because what else can we do? But
when she was on, and I ask him the color of her eyes, and
he tells me "gray"
and so I go home, and we walk on, stomping the concrete
sidewalk in defiance, and the buildings start to melt in
the new gray light,
they bend and we see it all and watch the suburban
enclave,
once known as
into the velvet shroud of the new morning’s dew.