looking for a man with nothing left to lose

poem | poet | poetry

looking for a man with nothing left to lose

steam rises from NYC street vents

where no worker trade walk the street

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on a sidewalk I stop to give a light

to a tongue-pierced stud who calls me, British fag

when I tell him my accent, I’m not working.

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pull on a smoke warms lungs

winter blues

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where hustle trades

be tall as brown buildings

in need of more than a fire escape

if wanting to rescue any bodies, round here.

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chicken fries among alibies

on street corners