Turning Point

Everything but the storm is lit
by artificial light. I’m sitting
cross legged in a deck chair
writing on my porch and lit
like a painting by the porch bulb.
The pavement glows dull gray
in the street lamps flood.
There’s a jumble of lit windows
in the dark ugly face of the apartments
across the street.

The air is almost no temperature
at all, a little cool perhaps.
It’s cool because of that storm
flashing out above all of the clutter of lights.

I want to make a big decision now.
Not even a good decision. But one
that means when I go back inside,
I’ll be a better man, or a crueler man,
just not this one watching the storm
and feeling a peace that wants
to be eternal.