Shadows of late afternoon,

closed sign in a shop window…

dusk drives out the light,

tamps the business,

sends the people home.

I look at my silhouette

as I hang out here,

stretched interminably,

longer than I’ll ever be.

My flesh is so perilously close

to being just a tenth of what I am,

as I read the sorry tale

of Bessie’s luncheonette…

it’s much too late to feed you,

even to call you by your name,

speak to you.

There’s just me in her window,

half reflection, half closed-sign.

And my shadow’s off

to link with other shadows,

until their shapes have nothing to do

with me, with signs, with restaurants.

Soon, I’ll be alone in the dark,

sitting on some broken steps,

as hungry as tomorrow must be,

a closed sign in a window,

open for business.

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