Night shift
I stumble home,
Not duped by alcohol
Just tired from a shift of dancing and merriment.
Lights of the disco ball, ever swirling, till 4am.
The walls still vibrating, in my mind.
The moon is full, and the lights are out on the empire building at this hour.
People swarm around glaring meat trucks at this hour.
Praise Allah, for halal! For gristle and pita bread to absorb the alcohol…at this hour.
Sucking on bones, while sitting in flattened gum on the curbs.
Girls cling to one another, trying not to topple off monstrously high heels.
Constantly tugging at their short skirts, tiny purses flailing around tiny wrists.
Nobody seems to want to go home, at this hour.
Men tuck into doorways, leaving sacred rivulets of piss in their wakes, for morning dog walkers and residents to find.
As the sky changes from black to deep inky blue, yellow cabs become sparse at this hour.
Delivery drivers hop out, tying double bagged baked goods to the door handles of businesses…too tall for the rats to reach.
And caffeinated sanitation workers speed from corner to corner, throwing trash cans willy-nilly to their own rhythm.
How do New Yorkers sleep, at this hour?
2/11/2024
About the Creator
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Comments (1)
Starting fresh with some new poetry here…