Lowell

Stagger, a little, the streets of nostalgia
under a bright moon this warm summer night
and look for traces of your past.

So hungry most of the time then,
thin and cold
bruised by every hard face,
the brick and stone of the place.

Tonight, you're older
harboring less intensity
not out of maturity or development
just bad faith, exhaustion,
faltering spirits.

You stagger under spirits now,
you and your friend,
it's good that word,
say "friend" .

All that moves out here, besides you
are the disproportionate number of police
daring you to get behind the wheel.