burn me

city sweats in July heat,
buildings sink and wallpaper peels,
a muted trumpet plays Miles Davis,
insomniacs do laundry,
a Chinese restaurant cook has a cigarette in the alley,
steam pours from rusty pipes,
coffee is on for
street sweepers,
newspaper trucks,
drowsy cop cars,
Mr. O'Rourke from 207 is humpin' some whore,
you can hear 'em hollering and groaning two floors up
where I lie awake on an old mattress,
room lit by a neon strip club sign,
out the window,
a drunken bum sings,
a slurred Dean Martin's "Somewhere there's a someone,"
as I read an old urine stained Gideons bible,
pouring over the last few verses of Lamentations,
sweat drips as I dream of tender lovers of the past,
thick steaks and icy martinis,
it's so hot, even the angels stink of B.O.