A silhouette stands in the window, not sure if she’s there or just part of Hitchcock’s imagination 

An empty beer can marks the broken iron gate, can't tell if it says come in let’s have a drink or the good times have been and gone 

I count the cracks on the pavement, the weeds break them up so can’t make them out, even the concrete wants to pack up its bags and whistles by as it passes on to pastures green

The streetlight  above has a habit of stammering as it does its rounds like an old heartbeat that’s grown tired of bubble shaped cars and happy hours for every single hour of the day and night

My stomach starts to feel like a barren place filled with a technicolor dance floor swaddled by purple velour smoking jackets and plastic smoking pipes only capable of squirting bubbles

The church looms in the background lighting its tower to give me some comfort but seems more like a used cigarette breathing smoke on that silhouette to make it cough and tell its story

Let her stand there, sing songs as a siren and crash ships made of polished shoes and unbuttoned shirts, only the streets will tell their tales with affection