The sirens don't stop
on a hot and empty
August afternoon
as people lean against
the walls of liquor stores
waiting for the day
to bring them something
the bar at Jones and Ellis
is the closest I can find
to nowhere
I play the jukebox
while outside
people walk
with studied purpose
to studied destinations
I choose my songs
and wonder how it was
I was born into their world
all these hours
strewn about the days
none of which
I can seem to hold
or make use of
an angry child
still dreaming of the day
when he'll grow up
to be something
more than ugly.