The streets are cold, wet, and unforgiving.
The suffering eyes of no named men
Stare up at the passive walker listening
To the rhythm of his footsteps.
One working girl works the married man
Behind the trash and the wire fence
Between the crumbling slums.
The moon seems as frail as a Robin’s bone,
If the walker caught it, it would break
And crumble and be taken in the passing
Trail of unclean air.