I walk the sad swollen streets
where the wolf-eyed women
ignore “do not walk” signs
and cluster in parochial packs.
It is beyond midnight
and the underfed mucilage musicians
stand on tiny stages
to sell their unkempt sour songs
for just enough coins
to shiver under threadbare blankets
and eat processed instant oatmeal.
There is a drug attitude
that permeates the dank hours.
Large latent women in the diner
profile whom they will serve or turn away.
I am at the end
of this evening’s disappointment.
When I order a bagel with lox,
my white uniformed angel
flips her brown grey hair
away from her perspiring face