The flash of late night neon’s
offered hope and rescue
to sidewalk followers
searching
out the end of day
watching the eyes of those
passing.
Flatbush Avenue ran the
beat of alive
never sleeping, holding tight the
sounds of city language.
Traffic lights measure time,
guarding the roads
offering passage with prejudice.
Stranger’s stand by doors
with caution,
whispering, holding shadows close,
watching for the next set of eyes.
Roger Singer 