The clock raised its hands in the dead of the night
and the street creatures fell into order.
Blackness fell back from the corner streetlight
as dark spaces between lost their border.
The clock dropped a hand one quarter ways down
and the memories of night were released.
The streetlamp shone bright like jewels in a crown
exposing an alley cat licking his feast.

The streetlamp so wise explained it this way:
“Behold the woman I bless with my glow,
she hides in the shadows far from display
and she, like others, thinks no one will know.”
The clock ticks on and the night disappears:
streetlamps stay silent embracing night fears.

Amera Andersen

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-life-of-a-streetlamp/