Wet Street crawls in the darkness only to catch the dreamer’s eye.

Neon’s reds and blues cling fast to this the sleeping mind.

Stumbles now a lost soul; clutching an empty bottle of gin.

Cars swish by leaving the gentle hiss of steam in their wake.

The lost soul now slumps against the wall below the flashing neon Jesus saves.

Two kids on skateboards twist effortlessly down Wet Street to a hidden rhyme.

They’re Kicking cans and chasing cats as they wheel down the street for the last time.

Up on 42^nd street wheels roll to their impending fate.

Come now eight tons of steel to deliver, already an hour late.

They kick a can; they taunt and laugh at the condition of the lost soul.

Sharp twist and turns bring them mid street; wide open and on a roll.

Burning diesel; roaring tires sharply screech; too late; too late to stop…

Two kids on a skateboard lie now on Wet Street.

Ever near the lost soul, where the neon Jesus now bleeds.

J. Allen Wilson © 4/2008