The ten o’clock train stop
Is a neon side-street carnival,
It glares and blinks,
Twists the feet of jazz artists
A grotesque crack in the pavement
Where young girls
Drop their dreams like weed seed,
Each of their bright eyes blooming
Like yellow harvest moons.
They roam the downtown square,
Legs as limber as bent willow branches,
They tease old men with fishnet legs,
Drink fine wine and wear perfume
Into bars where middle-aged women
Cackle bathroom gossip
Like wrinkled crows in old clothes,
Women who dread the nighttime
Windows of their high-rise walls,
The kids who’ve grown and gone,
The men with their matchbook numbers
Who never return the call.
Women who pull all-nighters
Playing pool and taking shots,
Tonight they roam residential avenues
In winter boots, dark and sliced
Into the gray shapes of footsteps and shadow.
They know each front-stoop
Is a proverbial doorway,
An invisible party invitation
That slams it’s entrance shut after midnight.
Written for a prompt at Warning The Stars Saturday.Shared at dverse Open Link.