Short Whiskey Poem by Pirate Thief

Sun-dress blue to evening-cloak black
all in the span of a short whiskey.
White lights
sterile as a surgeon's cut
slice the night
through tall buildings
and low street lamps.
The old city wheezes
and the new night inhales
every breath the day will give.
As I sit and listen
to the train cackle,
'clackety-clack, clackety-clack'
and watch as it spits out yesterday's heros
who walk stump-shouldered to their tiny homes
and never notice the blue and black
or the sharp white lights
and never stop to enjoy
the reflective warmth
of a short whiskey.