f it im gone home

It is 1:16 in the morning
I don't hear the clatter and clamor
of the alley people that I've grown accustomed to
those loud rantings that rattle through the air
bouncing from wall to wall and into my ear
The cold must have pushed them inside
into little spaces gazing sleepily
with hospital beds and color t.v.

They see faces, games,
illusions, life,
things they want,
people they enjoy ,
and objects they like

The broken people lie dormant
when winters sickening face shows
they hold in the howls and hacks
that braved old warm mornings
Hot with the ferocity of liquor
passionate in some taboo quest
they gag on memories and smoke,
cackling into the night
owners of the night
whimpering rhythm and blues like anthems
in flickering pipe light

We used to drink and go to the river
skate up and down the docks
enthralled in a search for something beyond our comprehension
we would coast past the bums sleeping on benches in Liberty Park
our faces red and heads doused in sweat
often falling on cool red stones
bursting with energy in the sleeping city
as we give the ledge one last shot

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