when the night has been reduced to a blinking green light
where the cold wind has screamed my ravaged ears deaf;
this is home from and after south.
and a comforting bretheryn of homeless souls,
i feel slightly out of place in this conspicuously upscale ghetto.
a man smokes a cigarette somewhere behind a school;
i see the orange glow fade in and out, this man is an artist.
creating paintings on the sky with the smoke.
one by one, they all depart from the pavement, and
I am left to mark, in ballpoint, my inane ramblings
as far down on my arm as they would go.
i've just written over a mosquito bite,
amidst a field of raised hairs and
odd stares from the lone, remaining other.
and this is where i run out of sp-

06/01/2003

Author's Note: just a chronicle of last night, as written on my arm while sitting in a parking lot waiting for a ride.

Posted on 06/01/2003
Copyright © 2026 Andrew S Adams