Sit and weep on a streetcorner a broken wine bottle by my feet two bums shaking down passersby in front of the all night liquor store for spare change and I don't have any but by god I'll show her. Loud jazz blares from a nearby car radio as the temperature soars--tears can't wash my blues but at least I'm not a bum by god I'm still me I'll forget. An old lady shuffles by with a shopping cart of greasy paper bags and they smell rotten the bums ask her for a quarter for bus money and she keeps walking as the city dies slowly like my heart. Beating.

I stand up to show them all how tall I am but my eyes need wiping darn smog always irritates me when I'm sad but I can forget anything in time even sitting on a streetcorner spacing. Lost.

Walk slowly past the liquor store the bums ask me for spare change I figured they would I tell them to get a job like me before I started drinking in the mornings after she left but it makes me forget the nights when walls echo with the sound of my breathing and nothing's ever good on TV anymore so I just pass out.

The street never changes, just gets older.