Insomniatic Ramblings Poem by Jason Cline

Forty-five miles.
Forty-five miles.
Forty-five miles and nothing to show.
For forty-five miles I've been killing my time
driving around, taking in city lights.
For forty-five miles I've paced around
from Cedar to Brooklyn, to downtown,
to the Heights.

John Fogerty on cassette, singing about
some girl that did him wrong. You think
to yourself you know the feeling, boy do you know.
That weird burgundy overcast at 3 AM when
stars are washed out in a sea of wine,
almost as drunk as you wish you could be right then.
Empty Sidewalks. Empty Streets. That damn
cop following me. Do I look suspicious?

Neon signs against the black of the world.
Sidewalk shops dimmed down inside.
Old cars parked in sidelots and alleys.
New cars lining the streets outside
miles of nearly identical duplexes.
Makes you think architecture's
come a long way in 50 years.
Or were they colorblind and in a hurry?

Most of the city sleeps at this hour.
That is, except the casino. The casino
and the ambulances and the hospitals.
When the blue lights flash from block to block
you wonder who got shot in the bad part of town.
You want to say a prayer, but think to yourself
This is the city, the streets. Prayers belong
in churches and suburban bedrooms.

Past the ballpark the spotlights illuminate
the white tubular steel trusses and
what appears to be massive rough cut
sandstone block sorrounding what you know to be
the escalator and elevator wells, and you think
to yourself - they spared no expense on that one.
If only you could catch a few innings at 3: 25
on a morning in December. Its only 38 degrees.

How much better a ballpark dog would smell in the dense cold air.
How much better anything smells on the cusp of winter.