we're such slaves to neon signs
silent buzzing 7-11's at 2 a.m.
dirtier inside, these nights are
a sort of yellow tint, variation;
high. But the avenues are not
grey graffiti anymore, the rocks
come alive, the city never sleeps
and the streets are all knowing
creatures that take the heat, take
the feet, throb and glide, glide
scuff, panel, catch the curb
the streets are the only ones
who love our
shadows.