With One Hand

Were you asking for attention
when you slumped to the
pavement and
did you feel like a writer's
tossed off lines in
some forgotten short
story
as you drifted toward
oblivion?
Where you hoping for
replacement far from
where the inhales and
exhales of loneliness
leave a mumbled
echo to shuttered and
deserted city streets?
So here you are
crumpled underneath dead
yellow hazy lights
blinking over damp
tired urban streets that
glisten in a late night hazy
street cleaner hangover.
You, with one hand on your
aching head
and the other holding on.

George Pal