Wishful Thinking

At night, we play God.

The streets aren’t loud, but they aren’t empty.

A bus hisses three blocks away.

A drunk takes the intersection like a man accepting applause,

half‑bowing to no one,

convinced the street was built for him

but always falls short of jester.

This is when we decide:

Who looks lost.

Who looks dangerous.

Who we’d follow, or save, or step around without a second glance.

We judge from stoops and benches and behind glass,

writing strangers into myths they wouldn’t recognize.

I stand beneath the streetlights and make my own rules.

Not because I have to.

Because I can.

We love taxi drivers.

They understand what it means to keep moving

while staying in the same place.

Nodding through backseat noise,

the meter ticking like a pulse.

A whore painted yellow, flagged down, used up,

erased by daylight.

Still, somehow, holy in motion.

They know what it feels like to be seen only when needed,

to orbit lives without ever touching down.

We’re all trying to get somewhere

without having to explain ourselves.

Something happens when the world goes quiet

and the lights stay on without apology.

We shed daytime’s performance.

We become witnesses. Or worse, judges.

I watched a man fumble his keys

and knew he’d get divorced quietly,

then badly.

Night invites you to decide who someone is,

or who you are

when no one’s watching.

The city makes its own confessions.

Garbage trucks grind.

Footsteps echo too close.

Elevators rise behind thin apartment walls.

Someone cries behind a door

they hope no one hears.

I’m not alone.

The heretics walk at night.

Some talk to ghosts.

Some hover near subway entrances

waiting for a train that doesn’t come.

Others just stare at the third rail

like it owes them an answer.

They walk like they’ve already died

but refuse to lie down.

I watch them.

Sometimes I follow.

Everyone needs something to orbit.

I’ve judged strangers from park benches

and stared at my reflection in dry cleaner windows.

I once held a full cup of coffee in both hands

like it might forgive me.

My reflection looked cleaner than I felt.

I’ve lingered near doorways I used to walk through daily,

as if memory might come out and greet me.

There were nights I left the light on

hoping silence would be broken by a knock.

It never came.

I’ve walked into tattoo shops

asking for something deep enough

to drown out what’s already inside.

I’ve faced regret

before the sky had time to change color.

There are corners of the city that remember who I used to be.

I let them.

I’ve found shame in my own kitchen.

It sticks

like noise I can’t turn off.

I think I’m a city.

My thoughts hum like transformers.

I overheat like engines.

I sleep with light in my eyes

and static in my jaw.

I carry too many windows

flashing with other people’s ghosts.

Sometimes I hear voices that sound like me

but aren’t.

I never learned how to power down.

No one taught me how to be quiet.

The city watches.

It waits.

It keeps score.

It does not forgive.

We walk like we’ve already been forgiven

but still audition for God.

Let it be just us in the city,

the only ones still pretending to be divine.

-AB

Song of the night – Prophets by A.C. Newman