AS I WALKED OUT ONE MORNING:
Walking to your house, trying not to look like a tourist,
hotel map cradled in a pocket fist. Men smoke cigarettes
on corners, scuff the ground, heads bowed, shaved rough,
dressed in Black, phoenix stones calling the Night-line daily.
Automatic Kings of waiting, paint spattered jeans, watch me
sideways, squinting, hang around for action,
squat between stark tenements.