Immigrant Night

Throw me out
into the immigrant night.
Lost and futile –
I am his.
Bygone and vagrant –
I am his.
Fractured, hesitant, derelict –
I am his.

Where is Paris? Where is Rome? –
I am his.

The night, himself,
tapered and turngiddy,
stoned and sex crazed,
offering no sense
of self-belief.

I am, but one day
will not be
his.