Dark Street

A dark avenue of thought in noir lighting is where my mind wanders,

Quickly past the pawnshop where I sold all my dreams.

I don't wave as I pass, cannot look in those dirty windows.

Afraid that one of them will see me and tell the others.

I shouldn't have worried; they saw me anyway.

I hurry by, 

Their fists bang on bullet proof glass; muffled pleas and wailing, echo, echo, echo.

My cigarette stays unlit in my hand beneath a flickering streetlight.

I catch my breath across from that diner.

Nostalgia crawls under my skin as I watch myself laugh and laugh inside.

That corner booth with endless coffee, the owner's tired frown, the careless disregard for time

The world being ours, ours, ours.

I almost go in.

I don't.

My cigarette lights with a breath of sharp bitterness, a party trick well learned.

When did it get so dark on this street?

Shadows cast by drifting doubts, heavy with rain, creep along the sidewalk.

I make it to the intersection, still closed for repair.

Equipment stationed like sentinels, 

Imposing but impotent and stuck with rust.

I inhale the sweet burning smoke,  

Angry red warmth lights the moody caution tape and road cones and the 'DO NOT ENTER' sign. 

I can feel my fingertips again; not yet

Not yet

Not yet having faded to a ghost in these dark streets.