Ok then let’s go,
to where the evening waits
like a mugger
to rob us of our faculties,
and yes, let’s wander
the headline making streets on purpose
we are fodder after all for stories.
And let us lurk in corner bars,
sinking a few jars,
celebrating the gutter for its reflection of the stars
and swapping tales of those same stars
and how they bounced off puddles
to take their twinkling place above these
poorly maintained roofs, locked like empty lovers
in an architectural embrace of stained ceilings,
witness to the couplings of broken men and whores
but let us never have cause
to fall too far
through the gaps in the bar,
where the drink
we sink
takes chunks and lumps of life
when it promised to restore it
because there will be time,
in time to call time,
to hear the bell tolling us into those same
bruised streets where we’ll pick up pace
and head each man to his anointed place
somewhere between the puddles
and the stars.
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