Troop Bazaar or The Street That I Live On

Only on Sundays is the street

neither drunk on traffic

nor binged on smoke.

Though its stale breath

still reeks of noise

and through its slurred speech

drip faint echoes of its quaintness.

In the tenuous silence

numbness of the facades melt

and edifices bellow

the wrinkles of haphazardness.

Houses squat like

decrepit old men,

that have cataract ridden

dead eyes for windows

with pigeon poop

in their conjunctiva.

And if you were searching

for the hints of humanity

behind those sooty eyes,

you would find shadows

whose light was the mound of filth

piled on the bosom of the street.

Unshackled by the din,

wails from the trash

convey to the sleeping gods above

of the desire for freedom

of the shadows of men.

At times, moon blossoms

at the end of the street,

but then shies away

from the psychedelic runes

of the shop fronts.

But the street pines away,

and in its reveries,

dreads the tumult

of a Monday morning,

and ensconced in its nightmares

I dream about

the distant rumble of traffic.