Looking at the window
I see handprints, a flattened mosquito,
a dusty, drifting strand of cobweb and
repeated reflections from a hanging lamp.
Through the dusky glass,
illuminated by a dim streetlight below,
dingy concrete forms rise above
streets shiny from grime.
Little more than shadows in the dark
but less than whole, tired, worn-out,
men and discouraged adolescents
see no future.
They are going nowhere, not
at night where form distorts
and reshapes dreams, where
the unknown wraps truth in rags.