The Slow Crawl of Night

In darkness the scent of French fries

Follows me along the frontage road.

Plastic bags cling to a cyclone fence.

Cars speed by, drivers indifferent

To my brothers in the shadows patrolling

Their few feet of privacy.

No eye contact until I step into the cheap cologne mist

Outside a 24-Hour Fitness

Where people watch themselves

In large glass windows

Lit by overhanging pale vapor lights.

I pass unnoticed, reaching

An alleyway behind a bus station

With the fireflies of fallen ashes

From men lining the brick wall.

I shall not want

Yells some unseen

Part of the building.

At the corner a digital bank clock.

Tells me I need a five-hour coffee.

I’m still afraid to sleep in the bushes,

Or, against an office building.

Finally, an all-night diner with soft lighting

Beckons me.

I put 76 cents on a sticky table.

The waitress with blackened eyes

Towers over me

As she pours muddy liquid

Into a cup with a chipped rim.

 She looks fuzzy and

Her hate keeps pushing my head down.

She sweeps away the coins

In disgust I imagine.

Later, someone grabs my arm

And says I have to leave

My empty cup.

I strain to raise my head,

Unable to speak,

A child again waiting

To be lifted up.

Outside amid the smell of urine,

I stumble, scraping my shoulder against

A rough surface.

A door opens.

The dull light inside fades quickly,

The time it takes for the door to close

And the bleach to sting my nostrils

Is the spare change of my despair.

In the slow crawl of night.

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