The urban treadmill of broken concrete grid
passes under my feet indifferent and cold.
The smell of incense and urine fill my senses
only to subside in jest as I breeze by the dirty Chinese buffet.
The likeness or Jesus and tired punk anarchy race across the streets.
Human squirrels dogging uncaring city traffic.
The residue of Scotch still prominent on my tongue.
The ache of tired calves burning on incline.
Steeper and steeper as I climb.
Angry fog races over roof and tree.
Attacking unwary pedestrians as they scurry
to beat the turning light.
One turn, 100 steps.
The stoop lays bare across my horizon.
Home for the moment.
Home until I’m gone.