My inebriated breathing pulls me towards home,
or what I used to consider “just my bed.”
The long, long avenue is usually indifferent,
and my torn sneakers scrub the sidewalk,
removing the city dust which clings
on the edges of my unwashed jeans.
I ask for warmth from the silent lamp posts,
they look at me with judgmental eyes —
I apologize, but their gaze are scrambled
by the feedback of the last band
echoing in the walls of my head.
The band has no name, but the members freely offer
their hearts to the audience.
We raise our bottles in acceptance.
I offer them nothing.
I smell processed coffee from a nearby factory.
A black car zooms by, the air shoves me towards
— where was that again?
I speak to the cloudless night, my query is telegraphed
by drunken hums and murmurs: this is not a promise,
nor an insight. This is nothing. I was not a thing.
I was someone else.
Yet here I am: traveling within the urban vein.
scrounging for scraps of sanity
or the occasional unwanted impulse.
Is this all?
Have I been reduced to dust?