Saw Sondheim’s ‘Fruit Juice of the Soul’
actor’s encore dip, tips, left and right and out to women like this, to men like that, the crimes of The Broadway Ripper
odd height couples in their Manhattan towers, I stored myself for a while, then star backed, from walking a three-week cold saunter
‘Where did he walk from?’
That was him, from LA, now fed-up in Western rent, getting sun’s burn, red and white fingers on newspapers, safety deposit dreams and driver’s value on eight track roads
falling crosses, non-Huguenot police chiefs, eyeing in underground time
smell filthy New York gangland death stare

*(Copyright is mine. Please contact me if you want to use or perform any of my poems.)