it's stopped raining.
I went for a walk.
the city looked as if she were
mourning over someone.

her cement cracked.
blood rose from her pores
from those who have died inside
the horror of her night.
her trees swayed with the cool wind coming from Mexico.

it stopped raining,
but she cried beneath my feet.

somehow,
I ended up downtown,
in the underbelly of her legs,
kissing bottles and holding myself up against her trees.

the road,
the sidewalk,
it all reeked of liquor and
throw up.

it stopped raining,
but she cried against my shoulder.

I looked up to where the moon should be,
but she was not there to deliver.
puddles of ***** and liquor
reflected the signposts of bars and clubs.

and I watched
people enter
and leave.

it stopped raining,
but she cried
under the pounding, ever satisfying drowning of music
all around.

it will rain soon,
I think.
the music will end soon,
I think.

I poured my beer
on the roots of the tree beside me.

don't cry,
honey.
drink instead -
the night is almost done.

here
comes
the
sun
to dry your eyes
again.

for all the men
in this bar,
the women whose love
is somewhere too far,
we will drink
beside them, admire such a city’s dismay
from the sewer’s of **** flushed here
every night.

even as the bartender
serves them,
I think you know
her love will never
come our way.

her love is too far
from this place -
perhaps not even there,
perhaps
she has no love
to give.

so, we drink
and drink
until we get so lonely that it just makes sense
to be here.

outside,
lions roam like the cats in the alleyways
and the people down here have
never seen a lion
before,
let alone see them
roam like cats in the alleyways.

so, keep drinking,
kid, because the sun is almost up
and our cash is almost done.

soon,
there won’t be any lions left,
but it’s alright -
here comes the bartender to serve us.
she’s has a pretty grin.

those
are the
ones
that hurt the most
when they leave,
leaving with all that magic,
that soul,
that music.

© 2015 Victor Parlatto