Of all the things that earth yet whelps
a spirit stands by wonder of the mass
humanity cycles through the grass;
it springs by blazing lights
onto pavement struck by nights
running roughshod over skin and sin
a dancing has-been formed of thought’s chagrin.
Beneath the wan light, a man does dream of neon exits
too dull to see the dancer’s fed him by the bit,
because oblivion is just another state of mind
a symptom of the daily grind.
Across the bar, blue eyes murmur: the bitter helps.