Standing Against The Streetlights Poem by jerome moore

walking in skidrow frisco faces without forms,
smiles and scorns, winds and horns, breath without substance.
Some of these women young enough to be my sister all akimbo-like
It was a gauntlet getting out of there man, on the end of the line there stood one old enough to be my mother I nodded ' ma'am, and her made up face looked like slime, and flecked off her leathery skin like rust she must have been the oldest running trolly in town that night.