Across the Tracks

down along 42nd and cypress street the allegorical prostitutes say their not street hookers but just a symbol of sex. just like the walking sign post stop, merge left, bump, narrow road ahead. cracked pavement and raindrops, concaved inward and downward awake the cornerstreet prophet and pattern out a little mercy for the junkies spinning double helix faith. such a beautiful gray angelican. the cigarette littered sidewalk somehow seems to resurrect its stone geist with dreams of a sandlewood gossamer in its head. but he must know just like all the others to the east, hawthorn st and alder st, birch st and ash st. he must remember that things dont change for the good much at this time of year. the gentrified saints have all moved north, to sit in hipster bistros and drink organic sumatra fair trade coffee. down along 42nd and cypress st little was said and less understood. mostly train horns and mumbling, mostly sleeping nocturnal birds with a few leaf clogged storm drains.