Poetry

Security guards walk past while they are on guard
with traffic lights, street lights gleaming
they are armed, in boots and uniforms
while some wait smoking outside of the cafe
and then they get into three patrol cars
and outside its raining buckets full and its night
and I wonder what Rembrandt would have made of this
before some become distant in the rain
and the cars of others suddenly come to life
with screaming tires, flashing lights
while they talk on their radios
and some run fast down the street.
with concern on some faces
while cars swerve at full speed around a corner.