In the city
it constantly feels as if there are rabid dogs snapping at my heels,
I snapped back anyway to come apart which is just how it was when Scheherazade broke into my heart as we walked to the prom, when she told me a tale of the nights she had seen in the budget hotels marking milestones of dreams.

Somehow though it's different now, this pain behind these windows eases off and slowly goes.

The dogs remain and growl but they've thrown in the towel.
The Scheherazade I knew then is just a story for old men,
In time to change for a change of my luck where the nights still smile sweetly but who gives a ****?

Not the dancer who makes points with the tip of his knife or the ramblings of a senile old man where his wife waits on tables,
not the leopard who once changed his spots for a date or the tigers aware of their new life as rugs.

Shrugs in the background where Cohen and Simone moan a tune into tune and
soon  it's my go to go and to go is always the option.

To stay are the dreams that we own.