Here,
Junkyard dogs
And Mexican barber shops
And prosperous wishes.
Streets sink into
The shine of night,
Men look out
From liquor stores.
This one smells
Like hairspray,
This one like wet dirt
This one like motor oil.
Car music, car rush
Streams constant
Over the road,
A man looks for cans.
A woman
Closes the grocery.
And the air
Swallows it all up
Drapes black between
Every one.
The stars, the neon
Don't get through,
Don't get them
Through that black air.
They don't glow
Like the streets
Don't break out.
They walk on concrete
Stuffed into it
Finding only small corners
In telephone booths
Under street lamps
To get themselves in light.
They've got the dark
And the cold
And knowledge of tomorrow,
But now is nothing.
Stuck Gone,
The men are done with
Here.