Streetlight Cartography

At dusk, the avenue unbuttons its collar, and windows begin practicing their small, gold hymns. A bus exhales at the curb like an old accordion, its doors opening to swallow and release strangers stitched together by rain.

Under a streetlamp, puddles pretend to be galaxies, each one holding a different sky in its shallow palm. A cyclist cuts through them, scattering constellations; for a breath, the world is all silver vowels, all motion and reflected fire.

From the bakery vent, warm yeast drifts into the cold, and memory rises with it, patient as steam: a kitchen table, an elbow, a chipped blue mug, my mother's hands turning flour and water into something that could keep a winter away.

Midnight arrives carrying a quiet broom. It sweeps the last laughter into alleyways, leaves one neon sign awake above the river, and in that humming red, I find my way home, following light as if it remembers my name.