Neon lights Xeon lights Blinking through the misty nights Floor Show Nightly — Shoes Reheeled Monarch Coffee — Vacuum Sealed. Flashing lights Dashing lights Send their message through the nights Transients Welcome — Drink Bock Beer At the National — Movie of the Year. Lights turn off Dark again Dark and silent in the rain.
Picture a city street at night, wet with mist, crowded with glowing signs. That's the scene Rinny Templeton builds in "Lights." The short, bouncy lines ("Neon lights / Xeon lights," "Flashing lights / Dashing lights") copy the rhythm of signs blinking on and off, and the little ads wedged between them make the street feel noisy and busy: shoe repair, coffee, beer, a movie at the National. Everything is shouting for attention.
Then the ending cuts it all off. The lights go out, and the poem drops into slower, quieter lines: "Dark again / Dark and silent in the rain." The speaker never says how they feel outright, but the shift does the work. The cheerful rhymes and the promise of welcome give way to emptiness. The mood turns lonely and a little melancholy, as if all that bright activity was only a thin layer over a very quiet night.