You're on a street corner
early evening
too cold for your flannel.
Your friend is late
and you walk home,
taking Fern Street;
14th sounds scary.
The grates do not
shine, nor will they help you,
stoic you both are,
artificial mirrors.
Metal makes the stores
blend, all those pointless inventories.
People look with disgust
because you're a stranger;
they're disgusting
because your trust must be earned.
People who matter have
somewhere to go;
you couldn't wait
another judgmental minute.
The mucous on your sleeve
shines brighter than the streets.
The next corner:
16th and Pine.
16th doesn't sound safer,
not like 40th
where you're going,
going.
