Here on Eddy Street
fog filled
and flayed by wind.
Drain clogged,
down-at-heel way station
for the lost and found.
Destitute gamblers.
Drunk cripples.
Blanketed figures
asleep in pawnshop doorways.
Con artists and
dispirited addicts.
Filthy. Stealthy.
Racism and rape
around dark corners.
The straightlaced.
The disgraced.
Red-eyed women seeking trade.
Wasters dethroned of self respect
Lush wine beggars. 
Wanderers wandering
forever deeper into exile.
Ragged vagrants of men.
The torn, forlorn,
wild and defiled.
Yet still you still hear 
cries of children
floating under balloons, 
and lovers. Lovers too
dwell on Eddy.
Here as everywhere
else in life.
Unsteady. Unready.
Breadless on Eddy.
Resident at 670.
Haunted. At times undaunted.
Inside this wild street
intensely surrounded
with all I ever wanted.