If I were a poet or a film maker, people who worked in the middle of the night. That’s what I would write about. Men who loaded trains, emergency room nurses with their gentle hands. Night clerks in hotels, cabdrivers, prostitutes, waitresses in all-night coffee shops. They knew the world, how precious it was when a person remembered their name, the comfort of a rhetorical question, “How’s it going, how’s the kids?” They knew how long the night was. They knew the sound life made as it left. Night workers lived without illusions, they wiped dreams off counters, they loaded freight. They could appreciate the world differently.