Under bridges no one lingers on
there are some lights hooked up
to outlets at the rest stop where
the drug deals all go down
and organ harvesters regroup
before they ditch the town
and take their business elsewhere.
A party gets thrown on the gravel
where the footing isn’t level
but the music through
the workshop radios still echoes
off the concrete beams around them.
Everyone wants to tell them how
they’re wasting all their youthful nights
on some pathetic lights
that stimulate the the back bone of their skulls.
In the rain sometimes after last call
in the alleyways that intersect
at points of no return
a few can learn a thing or two
about the outer ring of dust
around the moon.
Somewhere in a field there is
the top half of a skyscraper
laying on its side like it was dropped
from somewhere high and at the point
where it is torn apart
the cut is still as clean as when
they built it in that city scape
where the back cover
of the phone book has a picture
of a missing girl who somehow
wandered outside of the world.