Sirens blare,
Horns honk,
Drunkards shout,
Lights glare.

From a club entranceway issues a strong female voice
Shouting to guests: “Moth balls only, moth balls only!”

Heat sears,
Haze obscures,
Darkness descends,
Sleep eludes.

Dollar bills in skirts and suits march down
The proverbial avenue of poverty,
The age-old din of Bowery reduced to moth balls,
Mildewed flesh, stupefied hunger.

Oblivious to the stench,
Human currency competes for entrance,
Entranced by the sameness, the staid suspense of reality,
The sweet oblivion of moth ball-induced hypoxia.

“What a beautiful night!” coos an oblivous bling-ridden $100 bill,
Languishing in the 75-degree dead of night.
“It's December!” wheezes the mildewed flesh over whom she steps.
“It's December! Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

—Robert Hieger
 December 31, 2015

About the author: Robert Hieger

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