The Language of Streetlights

The streetlights speak in Morse code,

dots and dashes flickering on asphalt tongues,

casting halos on forgotten corners

where stories curl like smoke from a dying fire.

Under their watch,

the night becomes a cathedral

for the weary and the restless.

A man with a saxophone bends his breath

into notes that shatter like glass,

while a girl balances on the edge of the curb,

pretending it’s the coastline of somewhere better.

Neon signs buzz with electric hymns,

offering salvation in red letters:

OPEN 24 HOURS.

Inside, a waitress pours coffee

thick as regret,

her smile stretched thin over tired eyes.

The city hums in the key of indifference.

Rats dart like guilty whispers

between subway grates,

and the wind carries the scent of something burning—

maybe hope, maybe nothing.

On a bench, an old man carves time into wood,

a whittled bird taking shape in his calloused hands.

He tells the boy beside him,

“Wings aren’t just for flying;

sometimes they’re for leaving.”

The moon rises,

silver and unassuming,

pulling tides of memory across rooftops.

It hangs above the skyline,

a coin tossed into the well of the universe,

its glow soft enough

to let even shadows feel seen.

By dawn, the streetlights sigh and blink out,

their language silenced by the sun.

But their stories linger—

etched in the cracks of pavement,

waiting for the next night

to begin again.

Shane Ravi Lischin, 17, is a poet from Dutchess County, NY. His work explores themes of memory, identity, and the quiet moments that shape us. In addition to poetry and prose, he also engages in environmental advocacy within his community, and theatrical sound design.