Of the Street

A brooding dusk surrounds the wintry hush

of city streets, with headlines fluttering

in storefront corners, and the sickly blush

of streetlamps and the steely sputtering

of empty flagpoles. Revelry departs

a doorway, glassy eyes that stare beyond

the void to worlds where merrymaking starts

anew. The street belongs to vagabond

and beggar, blighted wretch who calls it home,

his legacy in pocket, daily bread

in scattered coins, abode a catacomb

of blight and grime upon a concrete bed:

affronts we gentle citizens deplore,

or more discreetly hasten to ignore.