Sometimes I stand on street corners,
whoring my thoughts out to any
john that takes my fancy: a pigeon,
the way city buildings curve into the sky,
a woman’s money and her
awful taste in shoes.
Now I’m staring at the little red man
of a traffic light, thinking,
He looks as angry as I am.
I want to reach out, take his hand.
There is roaring in a
world beyond my ears but
there is silence. I think,
Silence would be endless,
if I could grab this man,
before he is nothing but green.