The most dangerous people
are the poets.
Those fatally romantic souls that
wander up and down dark streets
casting shadows beneath yellow lights
and dream of word play to make
or, at the very least, romantic.
The most dangerous
are the the poets
who can accurately articulate the
loneliness that only love can know,
and know that rolled pant legs
marks the beginning of vanishing into
those dark streets.
A street lamp; their last spotlight.
Their own thoughts; their last audience.
They hear mermaids.
They do not return calls.
The dangerous ones
look into windows
meandering with a stubborn dog who will not piss,
and think of all the different avenues on avenues
their life could have taken them
and all the lives of all the living.
The dangerous ones are
seemingly catatonic with their gin and tonic
wipe wet corners of forgotten smiles on coat sleeves
that haven’t been rolled up for labor in ages,
knowing that it is for the lesser of the age,
The most dangerous ones
are the ones that know the hunger of
transient moments that only youth provides,
and they give you directions as you pass on the avenue
to the art club, night club, jazz bar, cafe, girls address
with shocking accuracy.
How do you think they know how to get there?