the shit people move at night

a few quarters for the newspaper on the bus floor no one picks up,
and the lactose and sugared caffeine in the cup,
a few dollars for the suffering,
a few ideas for the road,
a few things I meant to tell you,
a few bombs ready to explode,
a few smiles while you placate the nagging bloodsuckers,
a few nods while I move aside for the wives and their big diamond rings,
while I roll out the red carpet,
drop rose petals,
and shower gratuities,
on Ottawa wives with their big diamond rings,
a few moments for a homeless man's rant,
a few moments before and few moments after,
a few sounds,
that sound like love trying not to cry,
which kind of sounds like laughter,
a few thoughts because I don't have much,
but don't want much more,
a few steps through a darkened door,
a few bottles of beer under a dingy light,
another for the bumping and scraping,
and then a few more,
to celebrate the shit people move at night.

600 litres

600 litres of rain,
falling down,
through a black wind,
crippling a routine city night,
with rusted railings,
and thinned out metal floors,
shadows light shaky cigarettes,
and spit smoke,
into the misty street light haze,
fatigued glances at hurried coffee shop patrons,
running to dodge the wet bullets from the cold sky,
lines of hollow eyes sit on cheap chairs,
sit, in the quiet rain,
wishing the summer back,
but it's gone,
her name was "Summer,"
but she's gone,
so pull something new,
from your dreams on a cold night,
think of something new,
to write on fresh pages,
play a Neil Young song,
get out a snifter,
some B&B,
and put the kettle on.