The rosy fingered dawn.
The humid summer calm.
The thick smoky downtown night.
A thousand neons flickering slight.
The empty corridor of wood and brick.
The street, not lonely
But Mine.

After and before the average man’s day
I walk the town without dismay.

The lights perform
To an empty house.
No audience to applaud,
No traffic to obey.
If I jay-walk,
They have no say.

I take my time,
Stare at every crack.
I own the world
In all its minute
Finely crafted splendor.

The silhouettes of rooftops.
The black swaying branches.
A choir on the wind
For only these ears to hear.

There are passerby still
But the void is thick
And we merely share the thrill.
Each man together, alone.
Around the corner, vanishing quick.

And off I go again.
No worries, no fears,
No one to judge
Or be judged by,
Just the slow flowing grass
and fading starry sky.

The empty street is not lonely
Just mine.