At dusk the windows learn to glow,
one room at a time, like promises
remembered by a tired street.
The city keeps a lantern
for everyone walking home—
a bakery light, a bus shelter,
the blue square of a late television.
Even the rain carries gold
when it crosses those small mercies.
Even the lost can look up
and borrow a little direction.
Tonight I follow no map,
only the bright, ordinary signs
that someone, somewhere,
has left a light on.
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