Contre-Jour

It's another late afternoon, 
another baked boulevard 
in not so old Brussels, 
the heart of the business district

pumping commuters down the arterial 
crammed with Renaults and BMW's, 
clotted with office workers, neckties, 
free of most forms of thought.

I pause beneath a green lamp post, 
its arched spine seemingly
supporting the 5 o'clock sky, 
the sun dangling from its tip

like a million watt bulb
and I wonder who'd notice 
if I shimmied up there and
pocketed it for myself.