The city I love at night and miss
all week as I work up the line
in a classroom at the edge
of development

reveals a stranded few who
I can’t help with leaking pen
stray thoughts unmorphed awaiting
the tatty notebook
tucked under my arm.

Tall and tough but out of luck
out of gas with kids in the car
she’s fleeing something
I’ve got nothing to give
redden to be so unprepared.

Or, here, sobbing into shopping bag
gym bag or running-away-from-it-all bag.
I stop and stoop to offer, well nothing
I guess, nothing here to dab at red eyes
empty notebook, dangling thoughts
and ink-stained finger tips.

This is not my reality or the stuff of poetry.
This city I miss
as I work up the line
this city leaves us empty and dry.

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