A while ago, I was sitting on the step
Outside the Walcott House. Staggering
Lightning, above the Ave Maria, stroked
By a busy wind, through high tension
Wires, in the dimly lit street on a silent
Night. The choir had gone home, yet
Memory sauntered, in the form of dying
People on oxygen, before the morphine
Aborts the heart beat and searing pulse
Of pending political promise of employment.
Mosquitos and fire flies following shopping
Bags, as the smell of processed alcohol
Evaporates from the brush strokes, oil
The gutter, as the city’s scavengers, working
The shift’s final hour, before the racing rain
Drenches the null neo Nazis, KKK, alt-right
Recumbent racists, rambunctious rats gathering
In the safe passages of the sheltered halls;
A new generation impacts as evening calls.
Gandolph St. Clair © (p) September 7, 2017