nightwatch
You can catch light in a green umbrella and keep it for a while. It smells like apricots. You can stand on a rooftop under an apricot-scented green umbrella and look out over the city, and over there a couple are dressed for the opera, and over there are people waiting for the M10 bus, and over there is a man working late, and right there is a man using an app to figure out fifteen percent of his twenty-eight dollar tab (the cheap bastard), and there there there are violinists in the subway and grad students feeling lonely.
You can catch light in a green umbrella and keep it for a while, but not for long. It grows weak and thin and reedy, like an unclapped Tinkerbelle or fireflies too long in a jar, and it dribbles out into the city. The couple enjoy the opera, the cheap bastard misses the M10 bus, the man working late leaves and on the way home wonders if he made an error in his calculations. The lonely grad students hear the faint notes of a violin, which smell strangely like apricots.
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