In the amber-smog flicker of the streetlamp
raindrops stick
like molten copper ticks,
and gnaw away at the wrists
of the wrought iron railings.

Boy stares down through corroded metal steps,
takes a breath
of midnight mass crystal ****,
parts his hair with his fingers,
and spits into summer’s face.

Down below a cat hisses in a dumpster,
rats scamper,
and a trash can orchestra
churns out a ****** rhythm
to the tune of traffic jams.

A shiver as Boy feels street corners looming—
one more fix,
then, on legs like tinder sticks,
down the spiral staircase
to where chanceful delights await.