The witching hour has come again.
She clocks out, loves the way the
edges blur at the ink spill of mid
-night, the stagger of lone headlights;
the swagger of a lonely moon. There’s
a man on the corner who knows her
name. She palms him quarters, buys
him steaming cups of joe, vapor rising
in small arabesques. She swallows
Kerouac by streetlamp, collects the
rhythm of the train in cupped hands,
measures the mile between her last tip
and her first sip
in silent tiptoes and sober salt.
PAD, day 17.