Academy of American Poets
View Cart | Log In 
Subscribe | More Info 
Find a Poet or Poem
Advanced Search >
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Teig
Michael Teig
Michael Teig was born in 1968 and raised in western Pennsylvania. He...
More >
Want more poems?
Subscribe to our
Poem-A-Day emails.
FURTHER READING
Poems about Night
A Clear Midnight
by Walt Whitman
Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
by Vachel Lindsay
Acquainted with the Night
by Robert Frost
At Deep Midnight
by Minnie Bruce Pratt
At Night
by Yone Noguchi
At Night the States
by Alice Notley
Breaking Across Us Now
by Katie Ford
Flying at Night
by Ted Kooser
Hard Night
by Christian Wiman
Hellish Night
by Arthur Rimbaud
Here and Now
by Stephen Dunn
Hymn to the Night
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the City of Night
by John Gould Fletcher
La Noche
by Anselm Hollo
Last
by Maxine Scates
Late Night Ode
by J. D. McClatchy
Let Evening Come
by Jane Kenyon
Meeting at Night
by Robert Browning
Mother Night
by James Weldon Johnson
Night
by Carsten René Nielsen
Night Air
by C. Dale Young
Night Blooming Jasmine
by Giovanni Pascoli
Night Drafts
by Tony Sanders
Night Funeral in Harlem
by Langston Hughes
Night Songs
by Thomas Kinsella
Nights On The Peninsula
by D. Nurkse
One Night
by Mathias Svalina
Radar Data #12
by Lytton Smith
Rhapsody on a Windy Night
by T. S. Eliot
Sawdust
by Sharon Bryan
Ships That Pass in the Night
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Summer Night, Riverside
by Sara Teasdale
Summer Stars
by Carl Sandburg
The First Night
by Billy Collins
The Sun Has Long Been Set
by William Wordsworth
To Night
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Unity
by Pablo Neruda
Window
by Carl Sandburg
Sponsor a Poet Page | Add to Notebook | Email to Friend | Print

On a Night Like This

 
by Michael Teig

When he couldn't sleep and his sight got going
he noted the colors on the back of each painting;

this one forest blue, that gunpowder,
one blue to make the yellow tell,
and one bluer than that.

Certain nights only the rain will have 
its say, troubling the downspout.

When morning came
he chose a white shirt
(they're all white) and followed the buttons down.

At least he says there is Billie Holiday
and the plants bring every green with them.

When I make his breakfast, the bed,
sweep the house out with a broom,
he stands by the window longer than one should.

I know he believes in progress
even if it's the kind you can't see.

When his sons grew tall and remote
and moved to cities he'd barely heard of,
he talked to them on Sundays. 

Though perhaps it's too late
a silk rose in his lapel.

When I came back some nights
I saw him caught beneath a streetlamp
talking with the girl he loved

turning his palm over
like a phrase he couldn't remember.

I saw the night come down around them
one hand turning
and how she turned in the dark

and smiled, blue scarf on her head,
blue dog at her feet, blue attic between the stars.






From Big Back Yard by Michael Teig, published by BOA Editions, Ltd. Copyright © 2003 by Michael Teig. Reprinted by permission of the author and publisher. All rights reserved.
Larger TypeLarger Type | Home | Help | Contact Us | Privacy Policy Copyright © 1997 - 2014 by Academy of American Poets.