Damp fluorescent lights
drip pink onto the sidewalk
under a weeping moon.
Puddles refract reflections
into themselves, the street
a kaleidoscope under a polluted sky.
A steel door slams open.
The sound dances from wall to wall
and dies quickly, drowned by
There are three slaps of old leather
against the concrete and then a crumple.
As the sun gropes its way over the horizon,
the body is found by a prostitute finishing up
for the night.
She reaches down and pulls his wallet
from his pocket, slipping the money into
a nearly-non-existent bra.
She pulls out a fifth of vodka and a lighter,
walks to a trash can and sets the wallet alight.
In this part of town, there are those that
know how to play the game.