Closing Time, Sunset Strip Poem by David Nelson Bradsher

The coked-up party boys all cruise about,
shouting for more, or more than that, in cars
jetting on Hollywood past sidewalk stars
down Highland to the Sunset In and Out.

The neon circus, lit to tempt the dim,
has snuffed its share of them in strobed-up clubs,
floors filthy with the ash from stamped-out stubs,
and bathrooms catering to Her and Him.

Androgynous or strait-laced, they converge
to sample sin in modern Babylon,
a place to get that fix or get it on
to satisfy that itch or rising urge.

Some leave their cars, half-high, succumb to cabs,
bum rides from friends, or stagger in the streets;
some end their lives, not nights, beneath the sheets,
a toe-tagged reveler with perfect abs.