Calling into the swirling of car horns
the beep beeps,
-the party stops
“come on baby lets go! lets go!”
barely any urgency.
They walk along their skeletal frames
seeping in that ganja as the the waves of smoke twists and turns
wafting between street lights,
folding into shadows.
Redened eyes creep amongst the night’s moonlight
rushing home before a quickened blow
a fast jab
an agile snatch off his or her slowly lifting feet,
greeting Big Bad Brooklyn at a stealthy hour.