Night on the Town

this body lumbers and farts along
the swerving dirt packed trail,
where men and mice belong
mired in wet travail.

oh how we trudge the days
and nights away
in all our boombox glory,
we wait and wait and wait
for a sacred valet with slick hair,
cocaine, white teeth, his name
must be Rory,

and when he arrives at our door
we slip off the ice cold steering wheel,
surrender the vehicle with mixed motive
slide away from what we feel,
as he tips his plastic straw in rows of powder
in well practiced church-like ritual
and squeals the car away in a brash spark
of rubber and concrete.

we sit on the cold curbside
car-less in the dark
there’s a space we inhabit,
a welcoming near north Chicago
and a little park,

a red and white plastic straw
lays twisted in the street,
ahead a screaming siren, a loud flash
of sharp red lights,

suddenly, as our shoulders brace
for body bags as the living gawk,
we stand up start to stagger
upon the gray sidewalk,

the night has settled the score,
no further need to speak.