Out in the Dark by Ruth Bavetta

The television grumbles,
plane crash off the coast,

computer hackers, trouble
in Israel and Iran. Newspapers lie
on the floor.

Out in the dark
the neighbor’s dogs are going nuts.
My grandmother’s clock strikes nine.

The dogs are louder now,
a frenzy of barking and snarling.

The moon is a saucer-shaped glow
in the clouds, the stars hidden.

The lamp by my side is reflected
in the window. Above the noise,

a woman yells, a man shouts something
I almost understand.



Ruth Bavetta’s poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod, North American Review, Slant, Nerve Cowboy, Atlanta Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, and the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, prejudice, and sauerkraut.