When sleep can't find me, I guess because I'm camofluoged and fit too well in the night
(After all, sleep does have its eyes closed)
I make the 25 minute drive down to "L" street.
I sit on my old bench in that ****** fake park with the lined up giant rocks and the one weeping cherry tree. City counsels gift to the street ******, rapists, thieves  and drug peddlers.
  I watch, I listen and sip my whisky. L street is the worse part of town here. There's an asylum on one side of the corner, a bank on the other. Red light number 3. People are always lined up in front of the asylum. I suppose for little blue pills.
  Further down the row of crumbling bricks, is a cafe that plays live music on Friday and Saturday nights and across from that is a pool hall that sells green hotdogs. On the other side of the pool hall, is an empty building with my tobacco lady painted on the side of it. And my "bitchs bench", as I call it, sits beside that.
My mother has always raised immortal hell about my going there. Day or night. "You'll get *****, hooked on the "L" pills or murdered. Dont come crying to me when it happens", she sais. But as much time as I've spent there, I've spoken with more than a few of those "undesirables" and they all have a story of such pain and heart break. Or they're just mentally ill.
They're daisies. That didn't grow upright in this field of life. They tripped.
  My "L" street,
is where the daisies tripp.