Mar 5/99

A self flagellation on stage, with an invisible whip
Another turn of the wheel of fortune.
A brisk walk in the bitterly cold night.
A long wait for a street car, as riders line up behind me, then push past.
A man, helped by his friends, is lowered, into the sewer.
A knot of entertainment seekers jump from bar to coffee shop.
A group of punks stand shivering, as a cop examines ID.
A stretch of sidewalk, clear of chalk marks, where a man died this week.
An industrial wasteland, softened by the falling snow.
The bitter wind blows me home.