The Sense of Well-Being

At dusk's inexact instant
the brownstone sounds, the dishes
clicking in kitchens,
the whippet's hollow whine,
a siren, someone's distant Spanish,
disappear into silence
until the street is a hollow thing
beyond all murmuring.,
your footsteps as crisp
as a clock. You lack
all recrimination, pure
as traffic-hum, like a bum
who doesn't ask for change,
with all the commerce halted,
all the longing gone.