IN MY ALLEY

There is a clamor in the dark
echoes off of brick and stone
every Friday night in my alley. 

Wails of a concrete jungle ring
out amidst overflowing cans
of garbage; residue of people's lives.

The wails are a sort of residue.
Residue of pain crying
out to be recognized.
 
Liquid courage brings out the beasts
of this jungle and like a lark I cower
in my nest and conjure light.
 
Light finally comes to my alley
and buzzards with beards descend
to collect carcasses of aluminium.
 
All is well in the jungle now
until the beasts return in droves
every Friday night in my alley.

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