The Streets That Love Us

My asphalt dreams to dusk’s and dawn’s
tunes set, a man in all Grey with a boom
box that he gave an old shadowy cassette.
He sauntered down the street, his hands in
pockets full, just the boom box singing
old blue eyes, his heart for burlesque show.
Broken light made his voyage all the easier,
from sunken smoke in sewer’s reach and
spit mingling in Martini drinks. His post
from post to post, bringing lament in tow,
his old soot eyes looked at the neon show.
Basses and lasers swept the field, men with
no arm hair and plastic watches too, their
hearts lived on spinning mirrors, his on
shadows of plastic gum, women eyed his
suits to get his tailor’s number and get some
new. His streets were walked and his watch
had ended, marble phalanx of male’s incline
had slipped its suit to show tattoos of flowers,
hairless, the motley female’s and queers’ dower.
The streets he’d walked were empty, now fuller than before,
now neon lights to LED to something more, shedding past
and jotting new skin with permanence of old forgotten kin.

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