Nightime In Niort, France Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

there is a moon up there
sharp as a Stanley knife
there, above night shuffled
trees that crowd
the gangling water tower
below, on the edge of a circus
mustard-yellow,
a delinquent taxi glows
its like a flying saucer
just upped and gone
deciding the laundr-O-mat
widescreen didn't warrant
a death-ray beam
still, the town
in the armlock of summer heat
still the town, folded, night-neat
save for the lamp battering moth
a little duststorm in a heartbeat