on most nights
after the good girls have gone to bed
i remain in the bastard streets
of the fancy conniving boulevard
a priest of sorts a mother to them all
a bandage a kind word a gift card to Subway a needle a pamphlet
on every corner a hefty dose of Narcan
on most days i wonder
“what will i see today”
a corpse a hooker a business man
perhaps a Hilton or a Kardashian
my reflection on a tarnished metal sheet stretches my eyes down
it streamlines my cheeks
i flush and quickly leave
the phone rings
needed now on 7th street
when a little kid i was
Broadway was the place to be
Bruce Lee double features
before the Mexican Bs poured out
from the silver sheets mariachi trumpets and cock fights
the arcade and Arab jewelry shops
the old men speaking Yugoslav
fighting over parking spots
those were my early days
it’s about 4:36 am heading on foot
to Pershing square
the tamale vendors begin to stake
a corner with the most gabacho laborers
the scents and stenches
the city moaning itself to rise
i midwife the rising baby sun
sitting on the retainer walls
of Angels Flight
noticing a stash of pookie pipes
glistening in the runoff
of the Angelino fading starlight
it’s time for coffee and a jaunt
to Werdin Alley where i collect
the ticker tape prophecies in my mind
of what i will encounter later
in the nightmares of my night