The Streets Poem by James McLain

Here at night
the humidity is like wearing wet laundry.
Dark circles around her eyes that glow.
The pavement dips in all the wrong places
street lights that give off their children's dull night.
Scuffing up leaves powdered red dust
stopping I turn at the hollow noise that echoes.
The past at every turn.
All of they whom have walked these streets
have known from the beginning that.
Caught in tight spaces where not even young boy's
come with young girls to play.
The only woman I see hang over the rails
of their upstair rooms.
Most have their mother's breasts
and strangely enough their father's mustache.