met her in the net
of wage-slave- airy.
she was an innocent
to death; a cloud
pedestrian waiting
at the back of the
line (because it wont
be her turn for another 30
years).

I handed her

a cigarette and she asked
me what I was looking at.

"The steet," I said, vocal
jut between glaciers of
phlegm,

"cobblestone
is so magnificent at
4 AM."