Fränz Müller

Bowery

I stroll the sidewalk, cautious care

Eyeing shapes I dare not meet

Run my hands through sweat-slicked hair

The air alive with smold’ring meat

And who-knows-what, and sewer mist

That rises round my tattered boots

My city sans civilite

My culture torn up by the roots

A breeze comes through, with ash alight

The specks, they dot my moistened eyes

The tower torches pierce the night

Silent beacons, blood-red skies.

I slip inside my darkened door

And let it out, the relieved sigh

I fall asleep in silent wonder:

Another day I did not die!