Streetcar

He watches close that streetcar named Desire
and all those therein.
He watches it conjure up damp black streets,
then vanish into the stale hissing steam,
hover above the clamor and squawk,
in between the rubber and oil,
and land, unnoticed, amongst a thousand hands
pressing and plucking and prying.

He listens to that streetcar sound against the soft
erratic whispers of night-bar sooths.
He listens to it land like a thousand birds
descending the shore, that super-metallic screech—
so familiar—of wheels on long parallel lines
going straight into the
heart of everything dark and hot.

He sees what that streetcar has brought back
in refrain:
a man playing cards,
all cheaped-up on cigars,
and smells of thick tars—
a liquor so black
that night envies back.

He keeps a close eye on that streetcar,
because no one else will.
He keeps quite close so that one day he
might help the man off,
or join him.