11th avenue

the avenue is slick and sticky with animal fat leaked from dumpsters and trashbags
a serial killer of pigeons has passed through, 10 or 12 broken necked corpses litter the street
a chevy or buick, low to the ground, broken shocks or struts or whatever, jersey tags
guy rolls the window down, shouts, “where’s the ho’s?”
they’re everywhere man, this is manhattan
and we’re all going to be something else someday
or - can’t you smell them man, this is manhattan, no public facilities, no washing up between
and it’s been a long night
a long night and now the cars will overlay the fat with a coating of rubber and petrochemicals
the pigeons bodies are gone
the sun breaches the buildings, cooks the street briefly
soon enough it is gone and the night comes
promising, rarely delivering, everything and anything
and the night looks just fucking incredible once you get what you need
some cash left
even without the cash the dope will do, it opens the doors to everything and anything
you can do just about anything
that’s what going to happen