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Hooking
I’ve known the streets: Places where the night lingers and the echoes of passing cars feel distant.
My feet have grown accustomed to the dim-lit alleys.
I walked past shuttered windows when the city slept, listening for the familiar footsteps that come and go.
I leaned against the brick walls, my breath clouding in the cold air, and
I whispered in low tones, watching headlights sweep across the pavement, and
I felt the city thrum with unseen stories.
I’ve known the streets: Quiet, restless streets.
My feet have grown accustomed to the dim-lit alleys.
I’ve lain stretched out, my body bare to the night, where beauty and sorrow mingled in my broken bones.
I’ve forsaken my soul for a walking dead man’s pleasure, trading dignity for a moment’s release.
I wanted to retire, live on the beach in Miami, listen to the waves crash on the shore.
But another car has stopped at the curb, and I must wear that smile that pulls at a lonely man’s groin.
Copyright ©
Don Iannone
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