she walks prospect avenue in the rain.
dead eyes, sore feet
the flowers have wilted into
the shadows of acceptance.
she finds the corner
and the last light lit,
wants a match for her cigarette.
a ****** that has found her god.
a needle and a bed of thorns.
the beep from a car's horn,
so a customer waits,
swings open a rusty gate.
and when that door
slams
shut
the prisoner of light asks,
"where have all the flowers gone?