Sing to me o muse, of restless nights, tossing in twisted sheets,
Sing to me of dark enfolding night, of hot dry dusty lusty night,
Of the crump, crump, crump of rap artillery,
Of bouncing low-riders and the bouncing walk of latin boys,
Mingling with the whores and the homeless husks,
Under the glare of street-lights,
Of dry, dusty hot nights, or the cool clamminess of a lovers sweet sweat.
Sing to me of boys and girls dancing in hidden rooms,
with low ceilings and dirty floors,
of cheap beer and painfully sweet embraces,
dangerous encounters in back alleys sweet and hot and strong as brandy,
of quick encounters, made sweeter than any fruit sold in the hot, sunny day.
Sing to me of young first loves and of the hollow remembrances of love lost long ago,
That reflected glory of past days in an old man's eyes,
Sing of the whores and the trick, of quick passionless acts, of cruelty and addiction.
Sing of all the dusty, sun-burned, burned out people, of love lost, or never found .
of the desperate clinging to each other like the night clings to the earth at 2:38 AM.
Sing of violent acts in the cold first light, of the wail of sirens,
of bloodied faces and drunken men in the backs of police cars.
Sing of pretty young boys on the streets without family, of shame and fear.
Sing of a pretty girls first kiss, of proms, of telling her friends, "He loves me."
Of old couples, passionless, but still loving, holding wizened hands,
and waiting till only one remains.
