The street lights dance
Waltzing to the sound of the city.
Rubbing his eyes watching.
Nah,
Chocks it off to stress,
and pours out his coffee.
Five cups does seem excessive.
Pops a prescription forgetting what it did
But remembering its awful taste,
Tuti Fruti.
Silently they watch.
The cats
Sleek and quiet
Make their way to the forgotten places,
And he with them.
Up, up, up
The Minerva hotel, abandoned.
Delighting in the smell of rust,
Making like Decker in Bladerunner.
Though, he wasn’t sure if he was Decker or Roy Batty,
And this frightened him.
He answers the blinking lights
Coming from the radio tower,
But tells people he’s training a pigeon army.
Can’t let them get his good spot.
The conspiracy theorist on the third floor
Asked him to take him when they came. He wants to borrow them.
“Reagan’s finally gonna get it!”
Kook.
He much prefers the company of cats.
Fine listeners.
Fine listeners.
Tapping the pipes,
Flashing long, short, long,
A melodic practice
That distracts from the numbness in his toes.
Echoes
Flourish.
Comforted, in his illusion of control,
Like a warm blanket.
Steady in the arms of the blanket,
Keeping him from staring at his hands for to long.
Confident
In the screaming
Of light and stars…
He losses his train of thought,
Humming E.L.O’s “Mr. Blue Sky”.
That’s a new one, is something different?
Be different?
Doubtful, but it will do, until they give it back,
The bastards.