Streetcar

He watches close that streetcar named Desire

and all those therein.

He watches it conjure up damp black streets,

then vanish into the stale hissing steam,

hover above the clamor and glamour,

in between the rubber and oil,

and land, unnoticed, amongst a thousand fingers

pressing and plucking and prying.

He listens to that streetcar sound against the soft

erratic whispers of night-bar sooths.

He listens to it land like a thousand blackbirds

descending the shore, that super-metallic screech—

so familiar—of wheels on long parallel lines

going straight into the heart

of everything dark and hot.

He sees what that streetcar has brought back

in refrain:

a man playing cards,

all cheaped-up on cigars,

and smells of thick tars—

a liquor so black

that night envies back.

He keeps a close eye on that streetcar,

because no one else will.

He keeps quite close so that one day he

might help the man off,

or join him.