storm drains and loopholes

city like a disco ball and a smoke machine - 

     smoking cigarettes by a street stand selling people's dreams - 

red lights through a red flag waving, 1-dollar lemonade,

     green letters faded, paling legitimacy,

paper-thin, seeping 

     through the cracks in our history - 

it's people,

     all the way down;

downtown on the subway in a ball gown,

     curving dirty, mud on the cold ground -

unraveled at the edges, full on falling apart,

     old, maybe - she's a hardhearted lady -

but she's trying to save herself;

     it's frayed, shelf never said where 

it's made, but it's held

     together by the center, all the 

threads and intersections,

     and their paths are always crossing

even if she's not the boss, well

     still there's always a tomorrow

and the sorrow might be gone

     by then;

by them;

     it's all by them - 

the books, the shows, and heaven when

     or more like if she gets that far,

and bar lights shifting in her glass

     as the night slips fast and

nobody asks but she's

     losing her

grasp;

     falling into cracked pasts

that we pass on the

     sidewalk, careful not to break

your back;

     and if you close your

eyes, it's all 

     black.