Damp

The blinking light
of the lightning rod,
at the top of the tallest building,
sets the heart rate for the city
faster now than anytime before.
Parties rage in purple rooms
that spill out into open squares
where young people
wander off not going anywhere.
Giant clock faces, some digital
some analogue, compete
all night with the crescent moon
for dominion over starry eyes.
Men in dirty coats and stolen scarves
flip over trash cans
while the traffic jams
and the streetlight
bends reflected
by the rain.
The wind frays flags left too high
and bike chains break in ways
that cut the riders.
Garbage trucks baptize themselves
in flooded side streets
taking forgiveness from the cold hands
of the alley.
A woman held to Earth by just the dark
straps on her heels
tries to wait it out under the awning
of a nightclub.
No one makes it home
and in the morning
that fresh sunrise
stains the sky red
like the inside of her mouth.