Arcata, My Harlot

by Matthew D. Rowe

Where are you?

 

Wandering the lush,

dark streets,

dirty allies,

transient-comprised,

narrow and void

of light pollution.

 

Lost in drunk

familiar frenzy,

as voices of reason

overpower and outlast

the condescending grasp

of greater West,

thick with its

haves,

have nots,

do nots,

and want a lots.

 

Here,

the tin rooftop

flutters in the wind,

crumbles,

exposing the omnipotent presence

of lust

for the unknown.

 

What thoughts then?

 

Only that

it’s warm, late nights

in places far-off and desolate,

that I miss you most.

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