I walk the darkened streets
only to meet vagrants and beggars
who I take pity on, when few
will take pity on myself.
Though ACL booms loud,
Congress, well-lit after the twilight hour,
still has its crowd;
with electricals coursing
____and bringing power
to small coffee shops, I wander
about the smell of Java and fresh cigarettes
in the air, while I wonder
why this town is so wonderful.
____And it hits me:
Because this is the domain
in which creativity isn’t squandered
but fostered in the darker rooms,
the shadowed theaters where writers loom.
