Beneath the drip and drip of endless rains
And clouds, a canopy of bitter greys,
Bleak streaks of putrid light, tobacco-stained,
Seep flatly through this evening’s choking haze.
And lie like battered souls across the street,
Beneath the wounded soles of weary feet.

Grim dirt and grime grasp greedy to the skins
Of haggard men, who rasp and sway, forlorn.
Dim liquors dull all thought of darker sins,
As each wet night precedes a wetter morn.
“The Sun’ll shine tomorrow.” People say.
- The very words they muttered yesterday.