I know Lonely Street.
I’ve walked its beaches,
Stared mindlessly at
Friend television.
I’ve filled afternoons
With sips of coffee.

I know all of the
Hiding places there:
Bars with cement floors,
Noisy ceiling fans;
City libraries;
Movie theaters.

There is no color
Here on Lonely Street -
Only replicas
Of houses ashen.
There is no music -
Reiteration.

I know its benches,
Where I tease pigeons
With my popcorn and
Chitter at tree rats,
Watching worlds go by,
Waiting for passage.

I know this safe place,
This sanctuary,
This holy sector,
This respite from feeling,
Where any feeling
Feels likes it's torture.

So, I hide or seek
Anonymity.