Onto the street, at 2 a.m.

Everything is Electricity with that woman,

every contact flows with the sharp bite of invisible power.

Descend the stairs to the front door at night,

see how they are worn smooth and round,

they dip in the middle, from the hundreds of people

who have worn a track upon them.

The countless people and their feet

their dreams and their lies

their problems and their sicknesses

coming and going

until the air here is heavy with ghosts.

Black marks on the walls, the bannister scratched

They have been all over, nothing is new, nothing is untouched.

The used, the touched and loosened is all I’m used to.


Swing the door open to a foggy night and a wet lane,

A man lies in a doorway and coughs as I pass. I wonder why he doesn’t go inside

and sleep on the old stairs.

She sleeps on the second floor,

her apartment is better than mine; it’s bigger.

Mines an old box, nothing works.

I like to visit her; I do it as much as I can.

Not just for her company but her heating and large bed.

We stay up all night talking, and she fascinates me.

The city echoes with hundreds of horns, like a deranged and disorganized symphony.

How many promises are being broken tonight behind these walls?

It gets heavy but you carry on,

the steps get worn but you still take them,

hoping they lead to some warm place, where someone will hold you for at least one night.

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