On Bothwell Street

The wind hurried through
the office blocks
The wind scurried through
the office blocks
stretched itself
across the sky
and settled down to watch
the street flow in
a midnight trance
past cooking smells
in alleyways
incessant moaning
whining cars
and soulless songs
in sawdust bars
The street knows the need
Here she is alone
framed by neon circumstance
with watching eyes
that slyly glance
from shadows
as a door slams
the street grins
the street spins
the street begins to dance.
Women move
like planets in the void.