Smith Street.

Walking toward Smith Street

Smog smeared horizon blue grey

Passing bottle shops and pizza bars

Gravity tugging me toward her

“Sing for me, baby,” she will say

As I drip in her orange benefaction

Thinking: it never used to be this difficult

There never used to be demands

Now it all needs to be proven, contested

As if love were a performance for others

So I will smoke on her balcony

While she strums guitar and decides

Whether or not I should stay the night

I’m in no mood for a fight

So I leave her to her cats and musty flat

And walk away from Smith Street

Into a night more complicated

For its rare stink of freedom.

© shaun patrick green 2011