used books

rain mixes with oil with dirt
with the voice of the
man on the phone begging for
one more chance,
being alive
he will get one
but still
after
hanging up
the phone
he shuffles back
alone to his
room at the
YMCA, out side the window
the
street lights mix
the smear of tires
around yesterdays corner
there ghosts
the errors of being
close the door-
in the light of the moon
every thing combines
blue into Tuesday night
rain-
the mind wanders
south and then east
through this mess of one
splashing galosh after another
in search of
the next calls coin.