The backpacker.

The backpacker.

Even as you sit gazing at stars

The heat of the day barely over

The stink of sweat and unwashed bodies

Drifting up from the sidewalk

The sound of drunken laughter

The pain in the words of the homeless

Calling for loose change,

Getting short shrift from streetwalkers

Trying to make a living

Reeling in the strays,

The sizzle of stir fry from vendors

Selling authenticity

For the price of a bourbon

In the bars of Soho,

You remember Bohos.

Musicians in coffee bars

Late-night gigs in dark dives

Freezing in the snow

Waiting for the money man to show,

Going home with nothing

But a headache,

Sleeping on the floor

In a nightclub

Until the cleaner turfed you out

Into a blizzard

As cold as it could be.

Resting in your fingers

Is winter on a handset,

A photographic memory,

Consciousness expanded

Into another life.

Ten thousand miles away

Children play in the snow

How wonderful and terrifying

The truth of things can be.

The smell of onions and garlic

Permeates the best of dreams,

Cicadas are not singers

Fluorescent lights are not relaxing

Too many cities never sleep

Nothing is ever perfect

Or ever quite the way it seems.