No one walks these streets
anymore
except calico children
by the dozen
standing in wrinkled postures,
each lost
in a musical trance.
No one comes here
anymore
except heavy tongued policeman
and drug salesmen
who talk with noisy hands,
timed at best,
watching their backs.
No one stays here
anymore
under the heavy yoke
of another early night
as ragged people
with sour faces
scour at passersby,
hoping for a dollar in the hand
and a wallet
from a pocket
unseen and unfelt,
each one hiding
under the street lamp's
cycloptic eye.
No one lives here
anymore
not in the daylight,
nor night.
For this is that emptiness
that comes calling
when pitiable people hide
behind barred doors
and shuttered windows,
ever watching
as entangled lovers
pause under lamplight
knowing
that there is nothing left
for them here,
but
