The pigeons picked at the
crumbs in between the diamonds.
But they were more than likely
just pieces of broken glass.

The occupants of
the Mad house sit
out front on the concrete steps.
The look on their faces
say they are far
away from all of this used to be.

He could have been a
family man, a respected man.
Instead he slept like a
naive little baby, curled up on
the concrete with only
a wine stained coat for comfort.

This here is an asphalt
run still alive with history.

Good time girls and juiced up
sailors once painted this
street red with painted kisses
and fist fight blood.

The guys danced with the
women whose lips were
as red as the wine they drank.

This all should have gone
on forever.

All that is left now are
the pigeons and
the broken glass.

The winos and the Mad ones,
who shuffle like lost penguins
along Beacon street.
Still waiting for
the party to begin.