the cars sigh and moan their way down
a busy road; where the neon lights scream
in protest, at the t-shirts girls call dresses.

lonely crisp packet dances his way through
a labyrinth of heels, scared to tears by the squeals
until he learns; the streets are full of the insane.

cold, hard pavements embrace the glowing
embers of half-smoked cigarettes, hugging the
sparse warmth of sparks to its cracks.

a swarm of orange clones with yellow hair
giggle and dance into the arms of murderous gentlemen,
pretty and sweet and all too ready for injustice.

call me the queen of the subway, or dancer of
the night. a regal entertainer who will steal your heart,
make you crawl on your belly to the light.