The streetlamps arch their long limbs
into the night, expecting you
on the back of black asphalt.
Their hum is the drone of resignation.
Their grimace spills like gloom,
all over your face and hands.
Against this ghostly lamplight
even the stars despair.
I can’t help you now.
You must navigate the streets
in these small hours: catch the streetcar
that carries those who simply gave up.