We The Late Night Crusaders Poem by Alec Witthohn

Where go the Italian scootsters
With De Niro faces and gold chains?
Where go the surf headed looters
With straw for hair and flip flopped feet?
Where go the loose locked neighbors
With slump stances and technology?
Where go the clean cut brokers
Who pine over facts and figures?
Where go the Indian commuters
With soccer clothes and lazy gaits?
Where go the alpine climbers
Who linger long on the moving sidewalks?
Where go the lonely sun movers
With their oversized sweatshirt phannypack fiascos?
Where go the globulated page flippers
Who sink into the leather facing one another?
Where go the shifty slim pretenders
Wearing their backwards caps and limping?
Where go the skinny jeaned skaters
Who surrender themselves in stature?
Where go the evangelical debaters
Whom carry no badge of honor?
Where go the pony tailed senators
With their bright colors contrasting?
Where go the wisest consumaters
Toasting their eyes and tipping brows
Where go the pink woven pop culture chasers
Who know how to get about under the moon
Where go the look alikes, the hazard hatters
The penny misers, and the hunched over motion staters
The marine biology traitors, the ambiguous ego deflaters
The minute smile makers, and the absolute story portrayers

But most of all;

Where go the late night crusaders?
For without them I would not wonder,
Where go.

But they all go.

He go, she go
I go, you go
We all, all go
With stoic
Looks we go.

In dresses in hoods
With baby carriages
We go.

Reminded me,
Those loose locked neighbors
Of the families out side.
Reminded me,
Loose locked neighbors
Of the current time.

He doesn't know
How I write him down.

And you miss droop skinned painkiller,
How could I forget about you?

There's nothing more precious than
Two sisters who still wear light up shoes.
They still take large steps so the earth does not
Forget them, I will not forget them.

But how many woman's dress pants can one
Little poem boy take?

We the silent leather lovers.
We the metro-sexual song dovers.
We the clandestine cellphone talkers.
We the meaningless picture takers.
We the navy blazer blazers.
We the half assed executive strutters.
We the New York street runners.
We the people watchers.
We are writing poems about each other.
Poems in our minds eye.
Grimacing at our identifiers.
It seems that in the carpet perfumed air.
Some time between sunset and sunrise
Awaiting our turn to cash in tickets to leave our thoughts.
For a split second we all become poets.