South Houston Blues

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Between the cobblestones,
and cast iron rowhomes
is the sounds of Prince and Mott.
Back alleys and parking lots,
the tint of the neon.
The spark leading me on.
Little tacqueria,
and tired kids inside saying “See ya”
South Houston is ruby red tonight,
brick and cement, solidify the late night lament.
Lafayette and Bleecker,
the black ice chipping away at my sneakers.
The sunrise is way too far away.
The wind is burning everything now.
Oh the vessels in my face,
are simply veins interlaced,
trying to warm this mental fireplace.
On the rooftops, nearby there are cops.
All doing nothing, the warmth they are trying to keep.
I hope I do find sleep.

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Filed under East Coast, New York, Poetry