The week in limbo (a poem in free verse)

Strange old concrete
horizons bereft
now of cars,
an off-season, a summer
sizzling past with light
soft summer rain.

People to miss— trudge on—
unfamiliar faces,
year-end
refugees absconding
like lost loves lost and
never regained.

Congealed in amber: seven days,
last call
to arms, to none,
‘twixt Xmas & hereafter—
Father Time looks back, sees sorrow, rethinks
& ultimately forfeits his game.