All of these people,
each with an agenda,
people to see, places to go—
newborn they’ll be
in the cold of night
on the downtown streets.
Hand-stamped, beer-drenched, and
booty-shaken
in smelly pools of
midnight’s afterbirth.
All of these people
recreating themselves
on the ashes of life unloved,
And then running from the monsters
of their own creation,
contemporary Jeckylls,
fear-filled at
the sight of Hyde.
All of these people
trying to feel invincible, unflawed,
wearing the only mask
they care to wear,
and it’s not good enough.
I wrote this a long time ago about nights on Capital Street. I loved the people, but I sure don’t miss those nights.
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