“It takes one to know one,” she said,
and I had knowingly taken several of them,
so when it came time to talk to the cops,
I took the initiative to tell them
where to find Franco (God rest him).
And now it occurs to me
that we were guests in Franco’s streets,
once the sun went down, our city
became Franco’s house,
so slick and shiny with sin.
With a narcotic swipe
of a midnight hand down in
the crowded park, Franco shared
his jive with us; our greedy red
eyes wide with wild wonder.
But Franco was selfish too,
and when our little economy
got tanked, he disappeared.
The night lost its shine;
fear slid into our situation.
But how unafraid we were
to look like fools. We quivered
with every question, the bright
flashing lights mocked us; they
highlighted our fading highness.
I don’t think myself a fink,
but when an action’s time has come,
I’ll take it; sorry Franco for everything;
now it’s hello sleepless nights. Hello
rest of my life. Good night Franco.
Shafer Hall is author of the collection Never Cry Woof from No Tell Press. He’s a senior poetry editor for Painted Bride Quarterly and a poetry curator and host at the Frequency Reading Series in Manhattan. His solo poems have appeared in Octopus, Lit, Unpleasant Event Schedule, and others. He’s online at shaferhall.blogspot.com.