A door slams with a rattle into night.
Footsteps pass. The sound of a stranger.
A face unknown.
The high tide of whiskey and smoke
soaks the shorelines of sidewalks
As a city lowers its night curtains.
Tipped hats and high coat collars
wade the flow through streams
of streets.
Street lights. Fallen stars. Harbors of
cheap light on gum stained concrete skin.
A voice. A whisper. A half shadow,
part gray part black, prefers the without,
hiding in the color where it lives.
Roger Singer 