Proof of progress in a moment of regression

Last night,
standing on the corner of Broadway and Main,
repeating in my head,
‘Let us go then, you and I’
imagining the evening spread across the sky
like a patient etherized on a table,
I felt a familiar feeling.

The dull sound of
burning-out neon signs
in their death rattle:
a soundtrack.
The low-lit streets
where kids who don’t want to go home,
and men who don’t have a home,
move like threatening shadows: the scene.

You asked me what was on my mind.
I, too consumed with phrases,
and a half-written poem in my head,
couldn’t seem to bring any union
between my mind and my mouth.
Did I ever mention that I like humid summer nights?
Have I mentioned that I reflect upon
the puddles that gather in broken pavement
and catch light reflections?

Have I not mentioned the romantic feeling
that consumes me when I, alone, talk to my
best friends – long dead whom never knew my name?
A familiar feeling of former dark nights.

I worry I’m settling back into the
spines of used books,
a strangers scribbled insight-
my true confidant.

The worry had never consumed me before,
and so I turn to you, and stutter out whatever phrase
is overcoming me.
We turn back,
get into the car,
and drive home to watch a stupid movie.

And somehow it seemed the most profound
movement of art.