A man reclines on 30th street's rickety sign.
He takes long drags from a dwindling cigarette,
Smoke melding to the crisp night air.
Pools of reflection,
Flickering in unison with the dimmed neon signs,
Abandoned dreams.
The veins of our city bleeding red with the misfortune Of failed artists,
Of profitable businessmen,
Of single mothers holding on by the skin of their Teeth.
Everyone, looking for a chance here,
Looking for a purpose,
An amicable place to drift.
As for the man blowing the scent of tobacco and Peppermint over this concrete maze,
Well, he is the city.