Standingin the shadows
Watching the moths
And other insects
Swarmingthe street lamp
On a warm spring night.
Waiting, waiting,
As bandits and madmen
Passed me by,
My face sometimes lit
As I took a drag
From my Chesterfield
And looked through squinted eyes
At the turmoil
Of humanity.
Waiting...
”Waiting
for what?”
I wondered.

“Oh,there you are!
No,not long...”

Thedrunken poet danced with fireplugs,
Sangof false joy and desperation
Downand around that infamous corner,
Whilehard men swaggered,
Andwillful blackguards staggered
Backto the waters' edge.
Theylonged for soft skin,
Amoment's release, a pretense of love.
Theystood alone.