The Moon in the Windows

Three-quarter moon in the tall sky.  Streets full of yellow leaves and a left-over ghost with red eyes in the corner of a brownstone.  Marathon zombies everywhere.  Windows full of light, some cracked at the bottom to let out the steam heat and let in the autumn night.  A laugh, music, someone practicing the violin inside the French doors. 

More and more people fill the sidewalks, and the line outside the bakery is getting longer.  Dinner delayed.  I watched a car plow down the street, headlights bouncing off a street-level window, replaced seconds later by moonlight.  I walked past silhouettes of cats and someone at a kitchen sink.  How can all of them fit into that tiny room with the loft bed and the clutter of books?

The hazy jewels above the fanlight never come into focus.  Day and night make no difference; they suck up the light but don't reflect it.  Everything is spinning on toward midnight as the woman at the kitchen sink washes her dishes and feeds the cats. 

Tomorrow is Monday, back to work day.  What is next?